


Spun

by dear_monday



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Pencey Prep
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 19:26:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4758086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dear_monday/pseuds/dear_monday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there's one thing Gerard dislikes more than his job at the Needle, Belleville's premier independent record store, it's his co-workers. Frank has an attitude problem, Ray has a stick up his ass, and the less Gerard knows about what Mikey has, the better. The customers are bad, the colleagues are worse and the job, as Gerard will tell anyone who'll listen (i.e. no one), is definitely the worst thing that's ever happened to him. But then, one day, Brian announces that they're being bought out, and everything changes. An <i>Empire Records</i> AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spun

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story that's been in the works a long time, but I'm actually pretty happy with how it's turned out now it's finally done. It's pretty much the first time I've consciously sat down and tried to write something funny, which was daunting, but these versions of these characters came... worryingly easily, if I'm honest. I didn't initially decide to set it in any particular time period, but I was listening to a lot of old pop-punk stuff as I was writing, a lot of it from 04/05 (old Fall Out Boy, Something Corporate, the Dollyrots, Bowling for Soup, Mixtapes, that kind of thing) to help me nail the characterisations, and it sort of seeped into the rest of the story. As ever, it's been a real privilege and an absolute joy to work with [fayfurie](http://fayfurie.tumblr.com), whose beautiful art is always beyond charming and overflowing with personality. She brings the characters she draws to life in a way that I'm frankly pretty certain is actual witchcraft, and I'm genuinely honoured to have my work associated with hers. Love you, bb, you magnificently talented thing. Big thanks to the lovely mods as well, for doing such a wonderful job of organising this massive challenge. You guys are the best and we all really appreciate your hard work ♥
> 
> N.B.: any unflattering comments made about certain bands by the characters within the text do not reflect the author's own views and are not intended to cause any offence. Thank you.
> 
> Now go and check out [fayfurie](http://fayfurie.tumblr.com)'s gorgeous art! [Here on tumblr.](http://doodledumpery.tumblr.com/post/128681737462/second-batch-of-bandombb-stuff-this-time)

Gerard is late for work. Gerard is usually late for work, and given that he's currently staggering under the weight of a nuclear-powered motherfucker of a hangover, the fact that he's out of bed, upright, and more or less functional is nothing short of a miracle. When he finally reaches the store, he spends several seconds trying to pull the door open before remembering that he has to push it instead and stumbling inside.

 

"Good morning, asshole!" Frank sing-songs as Gerard drags himself over the threshold of the Needle, Belleville's premier independent record store. That's what it says on the sign outside, anyway. A wall of noise slams into Gerard and he groans, clutching his ears and whimpering.

 

"Fucking--turn that shit off before I hurl again, dickbag," he whines, staggering up to the counter and slumping down in the unoccupied stool behind it. He drops his head into his hands, hoping the world will go away if he ignores it hard enough.

 

"Nope," says Frank cheerfully. "You know the rules, whoever gets here first picks the music."

 

Fucking Brian and his fucking incentives for people to fucking get into fucking work on time in the fucking morning.

 

"What is this, anyway?" Gerard asks. "I wanna make sure I never have to hear it again."

 

"Black Flag," says Frank happily, cranking the volume up another notch. "And take those sunglasses off, you look like a douche."

 

Gerard grunts and leaves the sunglasses where they are. It's a disgustingly bright morning and it feels like the light is stabbing right through his eyes and into his brain. At least it could be worse - last time Frank got to the stereo first, Gerard had to endure an entire morning of the Bouncing Souls. As if that wasn't bad enough, Frank insisted on singing along to every single damn song, his stupid scratchy, nasal voice forever slightly off key and right in Gerard's fucking ear. Thinking back on this, Black Flag doesn't seem so bad. Gerard supposes he should be grateful for small mercies. He's going to start being grateful as soon as he stops feeling like he might puke at any moment. Until then, he's going to sit here and ooze resentment and last night's booze and contempt for Frank's shitty non-music. Oozing, he thinks, is a particular skill of his.

 

The first customer of the day beats Mikey into the store, which isn't exactly unusual. It's a dude in stiff, new-looking skinny jeans, spotless Chucks and an artfully ripped Ramones shirt, with an immaculately gelled and sprayed 'hawk. He heads for the counter, and Gerard suddenly becomes very interested in checking the cash register has been unlocked. His people skills are not good at this time of day. His people skills aren't really good at _any_ time of day, but mornings are particularly bad.

 

"Hi," says the guy uncertainly.

 

Frank flips a page the punk zine he's reading and looks up, raising an eyebrow.

 

"Uh, I was just wondering if you had any All Time Low--"

 

" _All Time Low?_ You're coming in here and asking for fucking _All Time Low?_ "

 

"I just--"

 

"What kind of corporate sellout shithole do you think this is, asshole? Fuck off to your fucking Virgin Megastore or whatever the fuck, go on. Go!"

 

The dude turns and runs, and Frank huffs irritably and goes back to his zine.

 

"Nice customer relations skills, Iero!" Brian calls from the back office.

 

Frank flips the bird in the direction of the door. "All Time Low," he mutters, shaking his head. He looks like he's about to spit on the floor, then seems to change his mind. He's dumb, but he's not so dumb that Brian doesn't scare him.

 

Watching Frank yell at customers always cheers Gerard up. Although, actually, this is nothing on the time two weeks ago when Frank caught a kid shoplifting, discovered that it was a Christina Aguilera CD she was trying to hide under her hoodie, and sent her on her way with as much of the pop section as she could carry - free of charge. Brian was not impressed.

 

Ray is the next one to arrive, uncharacteristically late. "Sorry, Brian," he calls. "Someone held up that hi-fi store over on Dewitt last night, there was traffic." He turns to Frank. "You mind if I put some music on?"

 

"What are you, deaf? I got here first, I get to pick the music today." Frank folds his arms stubbornly, but the fact that he's standing on tiptoes to meet Toro's eyes kind of spoils the effect.

 

"Oh, I'm sorry, I thought it was just a bunch of idiots with instruments making _noise_ ," Ray snarks, and Gerard groans inwardly. Not again. It'll be the fifth time this week that they've had this exact argument, word for word, and it's only Tuesday morning.

 

"Asshole, this is _real_ music," retorts Frank. "It's got a _message_ , not like all your doom-and-gloom shit."

 

"Yeah, and the message is that none of these people can _play!_ " Ray throws his hands up like he does every time. "Punk's not about music, it's about who can be the most obnoxious! Real music is - is people with _talent_ , not these morons who think complaining is the same as social commentary!"

 

"Motherfucker," Frank growls, "Say that again and I swear to god--"

 

"ENOUGH," Brian roars from the back office. "Accounts are enough of a pain in the ass without you fuckers! Don't you all have jobs to do?"

 

Ray skulks off to the stock room, muttering darkly about a decimalized cataloguing system and the kind of Reorganization that merits a capital letter. Toro's job seems to involve a lot of hanging out in the stock room with his headphones on, especially when Frank has won the day's music choice privileges.

 

Mikey ambles in next, yawning and trying to flatten his hair down. He stands and looks at the stereo for a long moment, a slight frown creasing his forehead. To the experienced Mikey-watcher, this is a sure sign of blinding rage. He turns a blank look on Frank that promises retribution in the form of an entire day of the greatest hits of Blur, then picks up a large box containing a hotchpotch of used CDs and vinyl and carries it over to the door of the stock room. He heaves the door open and a brief blast of Metallica filters out, mingling with the Black Flag still thumping raggedly out of the counter stereo. Ray is chief stock organizer, but Mikey is de facto purchaser of second hand shit. Something about his general aura of hipsterish disdain allows him to get away with paying people half of what their stuff is worth while leaving them with an inexplicable feeling of shame.

 

Gerard goes back to ignoring the world and nursing his hangover in (relative) peace.

 

A little later, another guy walks in and makes a beeline for the counter. Frank and Gerard conduct a quick round of rock-paper-scissors, which Frank wins.

 

"Yours," he mouths at Gerard, who turns reluctantly to face the customer. He's wearing a beanie despite the warm day, and exudes a powerful scent of BO and stale cigarette smoke.

 

"What can I do for you?" Gerard says, barely opening his mouth so that the words run together, _whacanidof'you_. The less he opens his mouth, the less likely he is to a) throw up or b) say something offensive.

 

"Hey, dude," says the guy, swaying a little on the spot. "I'm looking for a... a..."

 

"A song?" Gerard suggests.

 

"Yeah, yeah! A song! That's it. Oh, man. I feel like you really, you know, get me, you know?"

 

"It's been said," says Gerard wearily. "Who's it by?"

 

"Oh." A frown forms slowly on the man's face, like a cloud. "I dunno."

 

Gerard takes a deep breath and lets it out, massaging his temples. Goddamn time-wasting motherfucker. Gerard wants a nap, and maybe a beer and a veggie burger. Mostly, though, he wants this asshole to go the fuck away.

 

"Okay," he says, as calmly as he can. "Can you remember what the song was called?"

 

Slowly, the customer shakes his head.

 

"Give me strength," Gerard mutters, under his breath. If he had a nickel for every time this has happened since he started at the Needle five years ago, well. He certainly wouldn't still be working here, that's for sure. "Okay," he says. "I'm afraid--"

 

"Oh, oh, I know! I could sing it! You know, so you'll know the one I mean."

 

"No!" Gerard says immediately. The time for good manners (albeit completely faked good manners) has passed. Rule number one of working at the Needle is to be prepared to do whatever you have to do to stop this bullshit before it can really get underway.

 

But it's too late.

 

The guy is throwing his head back, filling his lungs and howling like he's been kicked in the nuts.

 

"Sir," says Gerard miserably, knowing that it's too late and there's absolutely jack shit he can do about it now. "Sir, please, I'm gonna have to ask you not to do that..."

 

The howling, if anything, ratchets up in pitch and volume. It still doesn't sound anything like any song Gerard has ever heard.

 

"Please," he says weakly. "Sir, you're disturbing the other customers."

 

The guy still doesn't stop, forcing Gerard to sit and fidget uncomfortably until he runs out of breath. When he finally trails off, alarmingly blue in the face, he looks hopefully at Gerard.

 

"Nope," says Gerard, shaking his head slowly. "Sorry, I got nothing."

 

The customer's face falls. "Oh."

 

"Oh!" says Frank suddenly, snapping his fingers. "Got it. Misfits, Astro Zombies. Should be over there on that shelf under M."

 

"Yeah? Sweet. Thanks, bro." The guy wanders off in the direction Frank was pointing and Gerard turns to look incredulously at Frank. Gerard claims to hate all the bands that Frank likes on principle, but he secretly quite likes the Misfits and even he didn't recognize that.

 

"Admit it," Frank says. "You're impressed."

 

Gerard snorts derisively. "Fuck off. You only recognized it because that's what you sound like when you sing."

 

Frank responds by trying to bite him.

 

"Alright, everyone," Brian calls, and Frank leaves off trying to take a chunk out of Gerard's arm. "Staff meeting. My office, right now."

 

All arguments momentarily forgotten, Frank and Gerard exchange bewildered glances. Brian calls staff meetings all the time, and they're usually a sure sign that someone is in big trouble. Usually, though, the person that's in the shit knows there's going to be a meeting. It isn't really Brian's style to spring this kind of thing on them without warning.

 

Frank, Gerard and Mikey make their way towards Brian's door with its five no entry signs and reach it just as Ray emerges from the stock room, looking just as confused as the others. Frank shoulders the door open, and they file in. Tacked up on the wall is a sign that says, _You don't have to be crazy to work here, but it helps!_ It was probably Mikey's idea of a hilarious joke.

 

"Sit down, all of you," says Brian. He looks wrung-out, his hair sticking up in all directions and his eyes ringed with deep shadows. Gerard wonders if they're about to get another lecture about not being sarcastic to the customers, or at least not to their faces. He takes the couch and Mikey flops down next to him, leaving Ray to take the temperamental swivel chair and Frank to perch on a large pile of orphaned hoodies that have been in Brian's office so long that no one can remember whose they were or where they came from.

 

Brian doesn't speak immediately. He's either choosing his words very carefully, Gerard thinks, narrowing his eyes, or he's having trouble forcing them out. Gerard has a feeling that whatever is coming is nothing he wants to hear.

 

"Okay," says Brian eventually. "I've got some good news and some bad news. What do you want first?"

 

"Bad news," Frank says, at once. "Is this about that guy last week--"

 

"No, no," says Brian quickly. "Nothing to do with that. No, it's..." he hesitates, drawing a deep, slow breath. "We're being taken over. I'm sorry, everyone. I've kept this place going for as long as I could, but at this rate we won't last the winter. Fortunately--" his face twists like he's tasting something sour, "--I've had an offer from an interested party who wants to buy me out. And I've accepted it."

 

There's a long, long silence.

 

"So what's the good news?" asks Mikey.

 

Brian looks up at him. "Good news?"

 

"You said you had good news and bad news."

 

"Oh. I lied. There is no good news."

 

Silence falls again.

 

"Is that all?" Mikey says. He looks vaguely annoyed that Brian summoned them all for something so mundane.

 

"Is that-- _is that all?_ " Brian splutters. "What do you mean, _is that all?_ We're being bought out. What part of this aren't you understanding?"

 

Gerard blinks at him. Honestly, he's trying to listen, but it's still really, really fucking early and he's sure he can feel his brain sloshing around inside his skull whenever he moves his head. Management is management, he figures. It'll be different, but it won't be the end of the world.

 

Frank picks at the chipped black polish on his nails. Gerard snorts. At least _he's_ making an effort; Frank looks like that punk-ass kid in the back of the class who isn't even pretending to pay attention.

 

Brian swells like he always does when he's about to yell at someone, but then he just... stops. He seems to deflate, sagging like a punctured balloon - the picture of defeat.

 

"Whatever," he says, rubbing his hand over his eyes. "I just thought you guys should be the first to know. Okay. Get back out there, go on."

 

They all pick themselves up from their respective seats and turn to go.

 

"Oh," Brian says suddenly. "I forgot. Iero, that guy last week? He did call and complain about you."

 

"How did he know it was me?" Frank says, folding his arms defensively across his chest. "It could have been Mikey. Mikey's an asshole to customers all the time."

 

Mikey makes absolutely no effort to deny it.

 

"Because," says Brian testily, "He was talking about, and I quote, 'that short-ass wannabe punk kid in the Stiff Little Fingers shirt who smells like pot and disappointment'."

 

Frank wrinkles his nose in disgust. " _Wannabe?_ " he repeats. "That's. That's offensive."

 

Mikey looks at him. "Seriously?" he says. "That's the part of this you're upset about?"

 

"Stop it, all of you," Brian groans. He drops his head into his hands. "So, customer service, okay?" he says, looking pleadingly up at Frank. "More smiles. Less attitude. Less verbal abuse."

 

"The verbal abuse is part of my charm," says Frank loftily.

 

Brian heaves a sigh so deep it seems to come all the way from the earth's core. "Just try it," he says. "Come on, get back out there. Let's see you serve a customer with no cursing, no insulting their taste in music and no death threats. Please?"

 

"Oh, fine," Frank grumbles, getting to his feet. He ambles back out of the office and slumps down behind the counter, drumming his nails against it. Ray, Mikey and Gerard arrange themselves nearby as the door swings open.

 

"Loverboy at twelve o' clock," Frank mutters to Gerard.

 

Gerard follows Frank's gaze and clocks Pete sidling in, trying and failing to look nonchalant and relaxed. Mikey suddenly remembers something very important that he had to do in the very back of the store and disappears as if by teleportation. Gerard scowls. "Not again," he says. "It's a store, not a goddamn petting zoo."

 

" _Heavy_ petting zoo, you mean," Frank sniggers, ignoring Gerard's nasty look. As one, they look at Pete - Gerard with great annoyance, Frank with something like pity. Pete works in the tattoo parlor across the street, and he's a pretty familiar face at the Needle. He comes in often, even though he never actually buys anything, and it's painfully obvious to everyone involved that Pete is only doing it in a misguided attempt to win Mikey's hand and probably Mikey's other body parts too.

 

"Frank," beams Pete. It's an unsettling picture, given that Pete seems to have about twice as many teeth as the average human being. He also has the worst tattoos Gerard has ever seen on anyone who tattoos other people for a living.

 

"Fuck off," Frank says.

 

"For the love of God, Iero!" booms Brian's voice, from the office. "What did I literally _just_ tell you? You cannot talk to customers like that!"

 

"It's not a  _customer_ ," Frank yells back. "It's only Pete."

 

Pete affects a grievously wounded expression and presses one hand to his heart. "I'm hurt," he says.

 

"Yeah, but you're not a customer, are you?" Frank rolls his eyes. "A customer buys things. You just come in here six days a week, talk shit, drool over Mikey and then leave. That's not a  _customer_. That's, like, a stray cat that won't leave you alone because you fed it one time."

 

Pete shrugs easily. "It's true," he says. "I'm only window shopping." He leers and looks around for Mikey, who is presumably skulking in the stock room.

 

"What are you doing here, Pete?" says Frank, not even trying to sound interested. "Mikey doesn't like you."

 

"To be fair, Mikey doesn't actually like anybody," Gerard says reasonably. He can't even remember the last time Mikey expressed an emotion that wasn't moderate to severe animosity towards another human being. How he gets so many people into bed is a mystery, and as far as Gerard is concerned, it can stay that way.

 

Pete is unfazed. "Not yet," he says, cheerfully. "One day, though. You wait."

 

Frank shakes his head, pity and disgust mingling on his face. "Does your mom know you're here?" he asks, changing tack.

 

Pete shrugs. "Trick's cool," he says, not entirely answering the question. "Andy's covering me."

 

"Why are you calling him Trick?" says Gerard. He's met Pete's boss once or twice, at the kind of hole-in-the-wall shows that only ever attract a highly discerning crowd of about ten people. Patrick is a relentlessly good-natured, sandy-haired guy with nerdy glasses and an unfortunate thing for ugly hats, but Gerard has to allow him a grudging respect for his taste in music. "You know he can't actually hear you, right? So you calling him Trick just to piss him off is kind of pointless."

 

Pete grins. "It's gonna catch on, you'll see. I stopped doing it to his face. We're starting a band together."

 

"Does Patrick know about this?" Gerard says, eyeing Pete shrewdly.

 

Pete waves one hand airily. "Not important," he says. "It's gonna happen and we're gonna take over the world. We might even let Andy and Joe join."

 

Frank snorts. "Like Hurley would ever play with you."

 

"True," says Gerard. "Hurley's a stand-up guy. There are, like, ten bands who want him to drum for them."

 

Pete huffs. "Only because they want a drummer who isn't gonna turn up and play the whole show wasted."

 

"Still," says Frank. "You're gonna have to up your game."

 

"Whatever," Pete says, unconcerned. "We're starting a band. You heard it here first."

 

"Yeah, yeah," Frank says. He picks up his zine again and flips through it until he finds his place. "I'll pirate your album. Mikey! Get out here, there's..." he looks Pete up and down. "...something here for you."

 

Mikey mooches back out of the stock room, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his skintight jeans. "Hi," he says, with all the enthusiasm of a corpse at a funeral.

 

Pete sidles up to Mikey, grinning. "What are you doing later? I'm gonna be out of town for a few days, I was gonna get a few people together, maybe go for drinks," he says, practically batting his eyelashes.

 

Gerard catches Ray's eye and shakes his head. " _Sad_ ," he mouths, and Ray nods with an expression of detached, scientific interest. Frank, meanwhile, is making kissy faces at Pete over Mikey's shoulder.

 

"Probably gonna go see this band," Mikey says vaguely, pulling out his Sidekick and beginning to type, ignoring Pete's offer. "They're pretty cool. Totally underground, you probably haven't heard of them."

 

"Try me," Pete says.

 

Mikey looks him for a long moment, then purses his lips and returns his attention to his cell phone.

 

"Hey, fucker, _my_ band's playing tonight. Why aren't you coming to see us?" Frank says, throwing a balled-up chip bag at Mikey's head.

 

Mikey tears himself away from the screen of his Sidekick and turns to look at Frank, raising one eyebrow fractionally. "You're in a band?" he says.

 

Frank scowls. "Fucking hipster dickbag," he mutters. "Aren't you supposed to be working?"

 

 

*

 

 

When one o' clock rolls around, Brian stomps out of the office, settles himself behind the register and sends them all out for a lunch break. The four of them scatter and, some time later, return to the Needle weighed down with sandwiches and chips and sodas. They troop back past Brian, still sitting dejectedly behind the counter, and make their way back to the office. A customary squabble for the best seats ensues, then, once they all have somewhere to sit, they start on their food. For a short while, peace reigns.

 

"It's weird, though," Gerard says after a few minutes, chewing moodily on the straw in his diet coke. "I can't imagine this place without Brian."

 

Mikey and Frank make noises of agreement, but Ray just snorts derisively and doesn't look up from the stock order form he's working on.

 

"What?" snaps Gerard. He pushes his sunglasses up onto the top of his head and glares. His head still hurts like a bitch and he isn't in the mood for Ray's bullshit.

 

Ray gives him a pitying look. "You really think we're still gonna be here to see what it's like when Brian's gone?"

 

"What do you mean?" Frank says, frowning, his weird-ass veggie sub forgotten in his hands.

 

"Don't talk with your mouth full, it's gross," says Ray primly. "I mean, think about it. New management comes in, pours a shitload of money into this place to get more people to shop here. You really think any of us are gonna get to keep our jobs?"

 

The silence that follows is the kind of silence that always follows a bombshell. Frank's mouth hangs open, still full of half-chewed sandwich, and Mikey looks like someone took his batteries out. Gerard barely notices. He hadn't even thought of that, and now he is, he doesn't like it one bit. He'd sort of been thinking about a dress code, maybe, and a less tolerant attitude to his haphazard timekeeping and Frank's bad attitude and Mikey's sullenness and Ray's snobbery. Working at the Needle might not be the best job in the world, but it's the only one Gerard has ever managed to hold down for more than a month. He can't really imagine working anywhere else, any more than he can picture Ray, Frank and Mikey doing other jobs. They might not always like it here and they certainly don't like each other most of the time, but... this is them. This is what they do.

 

"I'll have to write a résumé," Frank says, looking appalled by the very thought. "I'll have to talk about my _skills_."

 

Mikey looks at him. "You don't have any skills."

 

"Exactly." Frank takes another bite of his sub, and the gloom settles over them all.

 

Then the door swings open, wedged in place by a ratty sneaker, and Brian appears. "I forgot to warn you earlier," he says, in a deceptively casual voice that doesn't fool Gerard for a moment. "The investor's sending a representative to... come and see the place." his face twists like the words are causing him physical pain. It's the same look Frank gets whenever a customer asks him if they have Hotel California. "They said they'd be here sometime this afternoon."

 

Brian turns and goes back out to the register. Frank, Gerard, Mikey and Ray exchange glances.

 

"A representative?" Frank repeats. "Why?"

 

"Probably to start working out how much it's gonna cost to fix this place up," says Ray gloomily.

 

Frank bridles at that. "The fuck," he says, swelling with righteous indignation. "There's nothing wrong with it. It doesn't need fixing up. It's just got... character, that's all."

 

Mikey snorts, which is about as close as he ever gets to laughing out loud. "Sure, if you don't mind the busted AC."

 

"And the missing floor tiles," says Ray.

 

"The stereo," says Gerard.

 

"And the listening booths."

 

"The register."

 

"All the shelves."

 

"Fine, fine, it's a shithole," Frank says, but without heat. He looks like all the fight has gone out of him, as if it's been sucked out with a vacuum cleaner. "But it's our shithole, you know?" he says, looking around for support.

 

Ray rolls his eyes and Mikey just stares blankly at him, but Gerard sort of knows what he means.

 

 

*

 

 

With lunch finished, work resumes, in as much as it ever does at the Needle. Frank and Gerard sit on the stools behind the register, sniping at each other to keep the boredom at bay. Mikey slouches in and out of view between the shelves, his eyes fixed firmly on his cell phone, while Ray occasionally emerges from the stock room to complain that Frank's music is too loud or too shitty for him to concentrate. To concentrate on what, exactly, Gerard isn't sure. He's been in the stock room and there definitely isn't enough stuff in there to warrant Ray's undivided attention at all times.

 

"Hey," Ray says, on one of his excursions out into the store. "What time did Brian say this... representative was coming?"

 

"He didn't," Gerard says. He looks down at his wrist and stares down at it in puzzlement for a long moment before he remembers that he stopped wearing his watch when the battery died six months ago. He meant to get it replaced, but somehow there was always something more pressing demanding his money. Rare vinyl, or new comic books, for example.

 

"Should be soon, though," Frank says. He squints out through the window at the girl outside who seems to be reading one of the fliers pasted up by the door. "You think that's her?"

 

Ray barely glances up. "Nope."

 

Gerard raises an eyebrow. "What, because she's a girl?"

 

"Mainly because she's riding a skateboard."

 

"Oh. Yeah, you're right, look. She's leaving."

 

Apparently bored with Mikey's ambitious window display, the girl kicks off against the sidewalk and rolls away, threading her way through the passersby.

 

"What about that guy?" Mikey says, from right behind Gerard, and he jumps slightly in his seat. Mikey moves very quietly for such a klutzy person. "He's wearing a suit. That could totally be him."

 

Outside, a middle-aged man with a pinched face and an ill-fitting suit glances in, then walks on by.

 

"Hey," Frank says suddenly. "Maybe this is it. Maybe this is exactly what we need."

 

Mikey purses his lips. "Yeah," he says. "I really need to lose my job right now. Really great timing."

 

"This visit, dumbass," Frank says. "The investor sends a representative, the representative reports back and tells them this place is a train wreck, the business is dead, totally not worth saving. Suddenly the investor isn't so keen, they pull the offer, we all keep our jobs. Everybody wins." he sits back triumphantly, crossing his legs and lacing his fingers together behind his head.

 

Mikey frowns. "Would that... work?"

 

"I don't know," Ray says uncertainly. "I mean, Brian has, like, three mortgages on this building, right? Even if the investor doesn't buy it we might still get kicked out."

 

"Oh." Frank looks crestfallen. "But it's worth a shot, right?"

 

Ray puffs out his cheeks and runs hand through his wild hair. "I guess so," he says.

 

"I'll do it," Gerard announces. "I'm gonna, you know, charm them. Earn their trust."

 

Frank cracks up. "You? _Charm_ them?" he repeats.

 

Gerard glares. "Yeah? What's so fucking funny about that?"

 

"Well," Frank says, still struggling to keep his voice steady, his mouth twisting with the effort of holding back his laughter. "I mean, you're not very... are you?"

 

"Not very _what?_ " Gerard snaps, drawing himself up to his full height. Granted, his full height isn't very impressive, but he still towers over Frank. Then again, so do most fifteen-year-olds.

 

"You know," Frank says, with a vague gesture that seems to encompass Gerard's entire being. "Very... I mean, look at it this way, right. Have you ever charmed anyone in your entire life?"

 

"I might have done," says Gerard stubbornly. "I have... animal magnetism."

 

Mikey pokes him in the arm. "When we were kids you couldn't even keep sea monkeys alive."

 

"Sea monkeys aren't animals."

 

"So what are they, dumbass?" Losing interest in the conversation, Mikey starts playing with his Sidekick again.

 

"I don't know, fish? You're the one who actually passed bio, you tell me. Whatever." Gerard shakes his head impatiently. "You just watch me. I'm gonna go for, like, brooding and mysterious."

 

Ray looks at him doubtfully. "Do you even know what mysterious means?"

 

"Mysterious is my middle name," says Gerard, archly, tossing his hair.

 

"No it isn't," Mikey says, without looking up from his Sidekick. "It's Arthur."

 

Frank laughs so hard he nearly falls off the stool behind the counter, and even Ray can't stop himself cracking up.

 

Gerard gives Mikey his worst look. "Douchebag," he says. "I hope you die."

 

"Yes, _mom_."

 

Frank looks Gerard up and down. "Do you have any... like, other clothes you could put on?" he says.

 

Gerard looks pointedly at Frank's chest. "You're wearing a shirt that says Federal Boob Inspector on it," he says.

 

"We're not talking about my shirt, we're talking about yours," says Frank airily. "I mean, look at you."

 

Gerard looks down, considering his own outfit. Knock-off Doc Martens so old and worn that the soles are peeling away from the uppers, odd socks, skinny jeans with several holes in them, a Siouxie and the Banshees shirt that features a mysterious stain (tomato sauce), a faintly dark patch (beer) and a few grease spots (fries).

 

"What's wrong with it?" he says. He refuses to take fashion tips from someone who looks like a delinquent twelve-year-old.

 

"You're both disgusting," says Ray, eyeing the two of them dispassionately.

 

Gerard is about to retort, but Ray shushes him. "Incoming," he murmurs, indicating the bored-looking, suit-clad man pushing open the door and approaching the counter. He's looking around him, apparently making mental notes on the state of the place, and Frank raises his eyebrows meaningfully at Gerard. Gerard straightens up, runs a hand through his hair and surreptitiously tries to check for food stuck in his teeth. He's totally got this. He is _all over_ this. Ray shakes his head and disappears, evidently unwilling to watch whatever is about to happen.

 

"Dunno, man," Frank says under his breath, sizing up the man edging his way through the shelves towards them. "He looks a bit... hetero."

 

Gerard looks down his nose at Frank. "I have an excellent track record with straight men," he says, as archly as he can with Mikey sniggering like an asshole in his ear.

 

"You have an excellent track record with men who've seen you in dark bars and thought you were a chick," Mikey corrects.

 

"That happened _once_ ," hisses Gerard. "Oh my god, you bring this up every time. I was wearing a lot of eyeliner and very tight jeans, it's not my fault he had some bullshit caveman mentality about--"

 

"Shh," whispers Mikey, slapping one hand over Gerard's mouth. "He's coming over!"

 

Gerard rolls his eyes and sticks his tongue out to lick Mikey's fingers. Mikey cringes, pulls his hand back and wipes it on his jeans.

 

It's at this moment that Gerard realizes that the investor's representative has been watching the whole unseemly display with a vaguely horrified expression.

 

Gerard clears his throat and hitches a smile onto his face. "Hi," he purrs, leaning in towards the guy. "What can we do for you?" Laying it on thick, maybe, he thinks, but whatever.

 

The guy takes two hasty steps backwards. "Nothing," he says, very firmly. "I, uh... no thank you. I'm here on behalf of my employer. He's buying this place." the man's eyes never settle on Gerard's face, flitting instead from the scuffed lino to the mismatched shelves to the register that Brian found in an antique store three summers ago.

 

"Is that so?" Gerard tries to arrange his features in a look of rapt interest. He kicks Frank in the shin. Frank yelps in surprise, and Gerard resists the urge to bang his head against the nearest wall. The investor's representative is looking at Frank suspiciously.

 

"Sorry," Frank gasps, and Gerard feels the very faintest pang of guilt. He hadn't meant to kick Frank that hard. "I just--that's brave."

 

The man frowns, his eyes narrowing. "Oh?" he says.

 

"Well, look at this place," Gerard jumps in, gesturing around him. "Honestly--sorry, I never got your name," he says, with his biggest, most beatific smile.

 

"Peter."

 

"Honestly, Peter, this place is a mess," Gerard says, earnestly, and Frank and Mikey both nod in  solemn agreement.

"I mean, look at it."

 

Peter looks around, his mouth pressed into a thin line of disapproval.

 

"Even the rats have left," Frank says, straight-faced and perfectly serious, and Gerard swallows a bubble of laughter. And he thought _he_ was overacting.

 

Peter flinches. "Rats?" he repeats, glancing around nervously.

 

"Oh, yeah," says Frank seriously, warming to his theme. "Huge rats. Rats like you've never seen." He flings his arms out wide, suggesting rats the size of ponies.

 

Gerard elbows Mikey in the ribs.

 

"Asbestos," says Mikey, in his most deadpan voice. "Asbestos everywhere."

 

"People steal shit all the time," Frank puts in. "This neighborhood, man. Other stores around here get robbed all the time." He shakes his head in affected disgust, neglecting to mention that if anyone's stealing anything around here, it's probably him, although at least it's true that there have been a few store robberies in recent months.

 

Peter's mouth is pressed into a tight, thin line of disapproval. "Is that so?" he says, making a note on his clipboard. "Well, thank you. You've all been... very helpful. Okay. Bye, now." And with that, he all but runs for the door without a backward glance.

 

There's a long silence.

 

"I think that went well," says Gerard.

 

 

*

 

 

"We should have, like, a summit," Gerard says, once they're all at the store the next morning. Frank was the first one in again, so more shitty punk is playing over the stereo.

 

Frank looks him up and down with evident distaste. "No thanks," he says.

 

Gerard throws a balled-up receipt at him and misses. "A meeting, dumbass," he says. "About what we're gonna do."

 

Frank scowls, slouching lower on his stool. "What's the point?" he says. "Kind of sounds like it's a done deal already."

 

"You'll have to get another job," Gerard reminds him.

 

Frank shrugs, but Gerard can tell he's weakening.

 

"You might have to wear a uniform," warns Gerard, and Frank blanches.

 

"Excuse me?" says an unfamiliar female voice, breaking into their conversation, and Frank and Gerard look around as one. Standing before them is a girl with a shock of riotously curly hair dyed a faded turquoise. "Hi," she says. "I was just wondering if you had--"

 

"Not now," Frank says impatiently, waving her away. "Go away, we're very busy."

 

She looks around at the patently empty store. "There's no one else here."

 

"We're closed," says Gerard. "Sorry. Come back... I don't know. Sometime. Not now."

 

With an affronted look at the pair of them, she turns to leave, and Frank returns his attention to Gerard.

 

"Fine," Frank snaps. "Fine, god. Have your stupid meeting, what the hell. Let's do it. Mikey, get your lazy ass over here. Toro, come and-- where are you going with that bucket?"

 

Ray hefts the mop over his shoulder. "Listening booth four," he grunts. "Again."

 

Mikey looks over, one eyebrow raised. "Ew," he says. He puts down an armful of misplaced vinyl and wanders over.

 

Gerard wrinkles his nose. "Again?" he says. "Can't you just put an 'out of service' sign on the door or something and clean it up later? We're having a meeting."

 

Ray sticks the mop in the bucket and props it against the counter. "It can wait," he says, immediately. "What's up?"

 

Frank sniggers. Gerard kicks him in the shin.

 

"Okay," Gerard says, leaning in towards them. "What are we gonna do?"

 

Mikey stares at the ground and Ray shrugs helplessly.

 

"It's too late," he says. "I saw the letter on Brian's desk earlier. We'd need twenty grand to buy off the investor and there's no way we're gonna be able to come up with that kind of money by Friday. Not unless we all sell a kidney or something."

 

Mikey pokes Gerard with a bony finger. "You could sell your liver," he says. "It's basically fucked anyway, right?"

 

Gerard ignores him. "Twenty grand?" he repeats, horrified, his voice a whole octave higher than usual. He hadn't realized it would be so much.

 

"That's what I said," Ray says grimly. "Looks pretty bad, doesn't it?"

 

"No one just, you know, happens to have twenty thousand bucks lying around, do they?" asks Frank, slumping forward onto the counter and cradling his chin in his hands. "I mean, I'm still paying for college."

 

"You don't _go_ to college," says Mikey.

 

Frank rolls his eyes. "Not _anymore_ ," he says, in his very snottiest voice. "Anyway, I'm waiting for my band to make it big."

 

"You're in a band?" Ray says.

 

"Dude," says Frank, with an injured look. "You've seen us play."

 

Ray frowns. "I have?"

 

"Like, twice."

 

"Huh."

 

"Anyway," Frank says, glaring. "Ray? What about you? Savings? Trust fund? C'mon, what've you got?"

 

Ray snorts. "You're kidding, right? You know how I just bought that mixing desk? I have seventy-two fifty in the bank right now and it's still two weeks until payday. I walked here today because I can't afford to put any more gas in my car."

 

Ray has some kind of crappy home studio, although as far as Gerard can tell, it's less a business investment and more an expensive vanity project. Ray is the kind of guy who actually cares about how changing the compression threshold by one decibel affects guitar tone. He talks about that kind of shit a lot, but Gerard can only listen for about thirty seconds before his eyes clang shut with boredom. When Gerard voiced the opinion that over-production totally strangles the originality of the song, Ray looked at him with boundless disgust. When Gerard added that it hardly mattered with metal bands because there had been no originality in metal since the 80s anyway, Ray's eye actually started twitching.

 

Frank turns his attention to Mikey. "What about you, Mikeyway? You're totally sitting on a fortune, right?"

 

This time, it's Gerard who laughs. Even when they were kids, Mikey never had any money. He never had his allowance more than a day before it was gone, spent on candy or, later on, beer and pills.

 

Mikey raises an eyebrow. "I haven't paid my bills in, like, five months," he says. "I'm pretty sure they've shut my power off."

 

Ray stares at him, his eyes narrowed, obviously trying to work out if Mikey is serious or not. "How can you not know if they've shut your power off?" he says.

 

Mikey shrugs. "Dunno. I haven't been home to check. I usually just crash at Gerard's. Or, like, someone else's."

 

"For _five months?_ " Ray says, disbelievingly.

 

Mikey just shrugs again. "Why do you care?" he says. " _You're_ safe, you've been employee of the fuckin' month every month since you started here."

 

Ray scowls. "That's only because I _pick_ the employee of the month."

 

Frank shakes his head. "Whatever. Gerard?"

 

Gerard just looks at him.

 

"Good point," Frank says. He sighs, and silence falls.

 

Gerard spins himself around on his stool, one of the two Brian salvaged from the fifties-style diner three blocks down that went out of business the summer before last. They'll be the first things to go, probably to be replaced by ergonomic office chairs or something equally soulless and awful.

 

"Right," says Ray, after what feels like a very long time. "If no one has any ideas, I'm gonna go and mop up the jizz in listening booth four. I mean, not that this isn't fun or anything, but while I've still got a job I might as well do it." With that, he stomps off, mop and bucket in hand.

 

Frank shakes his head. "And Brian thinks I'm the one with the attitude problem," he mutters. "Okay, losers, meeting adjourned. I'm going for a smoke. You two... I don't know. Go see if you can find twenty grand on the floor or something." He slides off his stool and traipses out, rummaging in his pocket for a lighter.

 

 

*

 

 

Gerard is still alone at the counter when a dude shoulders the door open and makes his way along the narrow aisle between the shelves towards Gerard. Gerard thinks he recognizes him - it's one of Frank's asshole stoner punk friends, T-Bone or something. Gerard thinks he's seen four or five of them in the store at various times, but they all look more or less the same to him, so for all he knows it's actually just the one dude.

 

"Hey, Gerard," he says.

 

Gerard tries for a moment to remember the dude's name, then gives up. "Hey," he says. "If you're looking for Frank, he's..." Gerard looks around. "Uh, not here. He went out for a smoke, like, an hour ago."

 

"Oh, nah, I just wanted to leave these fliers here. Is that cool with you?"

 

"What? Oh, yeah, fine." Gerard tries to focus on the sheet of paper in front of him. So far, all it says is, _OPERATION: SAVE THE NEEDLE_ , scrawled across the top in his own untidy hand. The rest of it is blank.

 

Mystery Buddy of Frank's dumps an armful of photocopied fliers on the counter and turns to leave. Gerard doesn't look up.

 

Frank returns half an hour later, ignoring Brian's half-hearted, "What time do you call this?" and stumbling slightly as he attempts to climb back up onto his stool. Gerard fakes a coughing fit and makes a show of waving away the thick, smoky-sweet smell of pot. He wouldn't mind so much if Frank would only _share._ Frank ignores him, and for a while the only sound is Jawbreaker playing over the store stereo. Frank sings along under his breath and Gerard jabs him, hard, with his pen.

 

"Shut up," he says. "How am I supposed to come up with a plan when you're doing that?"

 

"Oh yeah? How's that going so far?"

 

"It's a work in progress--hey!"

 

Frank snatches Gerard's paper from in front of him, still blank, and snorts. He grabs for the pen and Gerard puts up maybe fifteen seconds of half-hearted resistance before letting him have it. Frank drums it against the counter in time with the song, sings along a little more ( _you're not punk and I'm telling everyone_ ). He tries to twirl it around his finger like a drummer with a drumstick - no, a cheerleader with a baton - and promptly drops it.

 

Gerard sniggers.

 

Frank retrieves it from the floor and pulls the lid off, then swoops in and draws a long line over Gerard's cheek and down his neck. Gerard squawks and tries to bat him away, scrubbing furiously at his face with his other hand and smearing the ink. Frank pulls Gerard's hair, and Gerard seizes Frank's arm and gives him a vicious Chinese burn.

 

"PACK IT IN, YOU TWO," Brian thunders from the office.

 

"He started it," Frank protests.

 

"I don't care who started it, I'll finish it!" Brian yells back.

 

Folding his arms, Frank returns sulkily to his own stool. He picks up Gerard's sharpie again and starts inking letters on the fingers of his left hand. A _W_ , an _E_. Another _E_.

 

"What would you do?" Frank says. "You know, if this place went under."

 

Gerard shrugs, hitching his shoulders up by a mere inch or two before slumping back down. It's a profoundly apathetic shrug that even Mikey would be proud of. Why does Frank do this? Why can't he just leave it alone? Gerard resists the urge to snatch the pen back and ram it up Frank's stupid nose. "Dunno," he says. "See if the comic book place is hiring, I guess. Maybe I'll go back to Cartoon Network."

 

Frank looks up at him, leaving the N on his pinky finger unfinished. "Cartoon Network?"

 

"Yeah." Gerard picks up a pencil instead, twirling it idly between his finger and thumb. "I, uh. Forget it."

 

"Forget what?" Frank says, his interest piqued, and too late, Gerard realizes that that was the last thing he should have said.

 

He scowls. "Forget it," he says, more forcefully. Cartoon Network is still something of a sore sport.

 

"Aw, come on," Frank wheedles, sidling closer and standing on his tiptoes to hook his chin over Gerard's shoulder. "Don't be like that, baby," he coos in a breathy voice that makes him sound uncannily like the first and only girl Gerard ever dated. "I just feel like we never _communicate_ anymore, you know?"

 

"Go fuck yourself," Gerard says half-heartedly, more out of habit than anything else.

 

Frank licks his ear. Gerard elbows him in the stomach and he doubles over with a muffled curse. For a few brief, blessed seconds, silence reigns, and Gerard congratulates himself on his skillful deflection of Frank's unwelcome attention. But then -

 

"So, why Cartoon Network?"

 

"Jesus Christ, if I tell you will you drop it already? It was my first job out of art school."

 

"Art school?" Frank repeats, the corners of his mouth twitching.

 

"At least I finished college," says Gerard pointedly, and Frank's smirk vanishes. "Anyway. Cartoon Network. I was super excited, I thought it was a fucking perfect job to get right off the bat like that. I thought I was going places. I spent my whole first month there working on a pitch for this TV show. I had character designs and story arcs and fuckin' everything. It was pretty sweet."

 

"Oh? So how come you ended up here, Mr. Big Shot?" Frank says.

 

Gerard scowls. "They fired me," he says brusquely. "The day before I was due to pitch it to my boss. Wouldn't hear me out."

 

"Wow," says Frank, after a moment. "Tough break."

 

Gerard waits a few beats for the inevitable taunt, for the punchline, but it never comes. He looks away, suddenly uncomfortable. Oversharing is Frank's department; he feels profoundly uncomfortable. He glances towards the door, seriously considering following Frank's lead and going on a smoke break for an hour or three - and then he freezes.

 

"Oh no," he breathes, suddenly frozen to the spot like a deer caught in the headlights. "Oh, _no_."

 

"What?" says Frank, looking around, nonplussed.

 

Gerard whimpers and dives down underneath the counter, cracking his head against it in his desperation to get out of sight. From a crouching position, he jerks his head in the direction of the dude now browsing the R&B section.

 

"What?" Frank says again, not troubling to keep his voice down, apparently back to his usual douchebag self after that sticky moment just now. "You've sprained your neck? You're having some kind of stroke? Is this like that time you cut your hair and you got pissy because no one noticed, _what?_ "

 

"Him," Gerard hisses, jerking his head again.

 

"What about him?"

 

Gerard can't even enjoy the fact that anyone who walked in right now would think Frank was talking to himself. "Fucking--that's the kid who used to beat me up at school! He can't see me here!"

 

"Oh, I get it." Frank rolls his eyes so hard Gerard thinks they might pop right out of his stupid smug skull. "You'd rather he saw you rock up to an awards ceremony with a supermodel on your arm, is  that it? 'Cause _that's_ gonna happen."

 

"Shut up," Gerard says, with all the dignity he can muster. Unfortunately, given that he's a grown man cowering behind a counter, this doesn't add up to much. But Frank is just a short-ass stoner punk snob, and Gerard _does not care what he thinks._ He doesn't. Not even a bit. "I don't want him to see me at all, okay?" Gerard snaps.

 

"He's coming over," Frank says, and Gerard scrambles frantically to hide himself from sight. He feels all of fourteen again, chubby and unwashed and painfully awkward. Well. Marginally more so than he is now, at least. His stomach turns, sick with the old fear, his heart quickening. Above him, he hears the rustle and clink of cash changing hands, hears the _ker-chunk_ of Frank popping open the register for change, and he lets out a slow breath. Jordan has his change and whatever he bought and he's turning to leave. Gerard congratulates himself on his quick thinking and excellent hiding skills.

 

"Hey," says Frank suddenly. "Wait up, I think you know my buddy here."

 

And a hand reaches down, seizes Gerard by the collar of his t-shirt and hauls him up.

 

Gerard has wished for the ground to swallow him up more times than he can count in his twenty-six years, but this, he thinks, is a new low. This is a fucking doozy. He stands there, furiously red in the face, his t-shirt hanging off one shoulder where Frank pulled at it, and stares intently down at his own feet. He thinks longingly of spontaneous combustion. He wonders if it's possible to die of shame.

 

"Gerard?" says Jordan, looking Gerard up and down with a surprised expression that doesn't make Gerard feel the slightest bit better. Although, to be fair, that might be because Frank just pulled him out of nowhere like a rabbit from a goddamn hat.

 

"Hi," Gerard mumbles, still staring down at his feet, his cheeks burning and his stomach tying itself in knots.

 

Jordan looks positively delighted. "Oh my god, hey, man!" he says, beaming. "You work here now?"

 

Gerard wants to say something devastatingly sarcastic, but Jordan's grin triggers a sick swoop of dread in his stomach and the words wither and die in his mouth. "I, uh," he manages. "Yeah."

 

"Cool. Man, I can't believe this, it's been _years_ ," beams Jordan, like running into Gerard is the best thing that's happened to him all week. Gerard bobs his head noncommittally in a way that he hopes says, _Yes, it has been years, and I was doing just fine, thanks_. He can't think of anything to say, so for a long moment, they just stand there, Jordan smiling broadly and Gerard hopelessly tongue-tied and embarrassed.

 

"Hey," Jordan says, with the same grin that used to strike terror into Gerard's heart. It's the grin that says, _I have an idea, and you're not going to like it_. "How about we go out sometime? Dinner? Drinks? Whatever you want, man."

 

Gerard stares at him for a long moment, his brain working furiously. Did _Jordan_ _Jackson_ \- Jordan Jackson who used to call him a fag at least twice a day, Jordan Jackson who once sat on him and ground his face into the mud, Jordan Jackson who did everything in his power to make Gerard's life a living hell - just _ask him out?_

 

Actually, Gerard reflects, maybe this explains a lot.

 

"I'll, uh," he  croaks, aiming for scornfully assertive and instead sounding squeaky and panicked. "I'll think about it?"

 

"Cool," says Jordan again, nodding, and looking Gerard over in a way that makes him want to disappear under the counter again. "See you 'round, Gerard." With that, he turns and walks out, the record he bought tucked under his arm.

 

Gerard shakes his head in utter disbelief. He needs a stiff drink and several cigarettes, and maybe a place to hide for a while. Maybe he could persuade Toro to switch jobs for the afternoon, he's sure moping about in the stock room with headphones on can't be that difficult. On the other hand, the last time Toro took a shift on the register, only Brian's swift intervention prevented a nasty lawsuit.

 

"So?" Frank says.

 

Gerard looks up at him. He'd sort of forgotten Frank was there. "So what?"

 

" _So_ , are you gonna go?"

 

Gerard blinks. He still feels off-balance, confused. "Go where?"

 

Frank groans. "I swear to god, are you trying to piss me off or are you just this fucking dumb? _Go out with him_ , jackass."

 

"What?! No!" Gerard splutters. He can feel the color rising in his face again. "Frank, when we were in eighth grade Jordan Jackson told the entire school I was giving blowjobs under the bleachers for a dollar a go."

 

"He thought you showed... entrepreneurial spirit. That's a compliment."

 

"And he told the whole school I wet the bed."

 

"Well, did you?"

 

" _No_." Gerard glares. Jordan Jackson was also responsible for telling everyone that Gerard cried when Miss Harries made them all watch _Bambi_ , but that one was actually true. Gerard shakes his head impatiently. "The point is, he's an asshole. Why would I want to fucking date him?"

 

"Oh, what, like you've never dated assholes before?"

 

Gerard opens his mouth to say something cutting, then closes it again. " _You're_ an asshole," he says.

 

Frank snorts. "Lucky you're not my type."

 

"Oh yeah?" Gerard says. He still feels rattled, deeply unnerved by the ghost of high school bullies past. Needling Frank, however, is more familiar ground. "What is your type, then? Civilized? Well dressed? You know, since opposites attract."

 

Frank snorts. "Bzzzt. Nope. Couldn't be more wrong."

 

"No?"

 

"Nah. What does that say about me?"

 

"That you're a dangerous pervert, probably," says Gerard, his interest waning. It's no fun when Frank won't take the bait.

 

Frank slides down from his stool and picks up his ratty old backpack. Gerard suspects that the many patches sewn inexpertly to the canvas are all that stops it falling apart. Gerard raises an eyebrow at Frank. "Where do you think you're going?"

 

"Band practice," Frank says, a little defensively. "I'll be back later."

 

Gerard blinks at him. "Wait. You're in a band?"

 

Frank shakes his head in disgust, and slouches off towards the door.

 

Gerard very nearly waits until the door has swung closed behind Frank before he hits stop on the stereo and puts the Cure on instead.

 

 

*

 

 

Frank is still at band practice when Brian announces that he's going on a grocery run and stomps out, leaving Gerard behind the counter, Ray in the stock room and Mikey drifting vaguely around the store, rearranging the vinyl. Gerard is pretty sure he's dismantling Ray's meticulous alphabetized genre sections and reordering them by the dominant colors in the cover art. It's a quiet afternoon, and Gerard occupies himself by doodling on his _OPERATION: SAVE THE NEEDLE_ sheet while he waits for fundraising inspiration to strike. A few college-aged kids wander in off the street and look around before leaving again, complaining about the prices without troubling to keep their voices down.

 

"Fuck off back to Wal-Mart," Gerard mutters, then shudders as he realizes how much he sounds like Frank. Thank god no one heard that. Another kid walks in and makes his way slowly towards Gerard, scuffing his sneakers against the floor, his hands in the pockets of his hoodie.

 

Gerard ignores him. In his experience, it's a mistake to let customers think they have the upper hand, which rules out offering to help them in any way, shape or form. When a shadow falls over him, he looks up.

 

"Can I help you?" he says, reluctantly. He can't be bothered with this today. What is wrong with people? Why can't they ever just look through the shelves and find shit on their own? Is it really that hard?

 

And then the kid pulls a gun from his hoodie and aims it squarely at Gerard's chest. "Nobody move," he says, his voice and hands shaking.

 

Gerard groans. Not _again_. "Dude," he says. "Seriously?"

 

"Shut up!" the would-be gunman snaps, his voice rising dangerously. "Shut _up!_ Hands where I can see them!"

 

With an exasperated sigh, Gerard raises both of his hands. He glances over his shoulder. Where the fuck are the others? Ray is probably still in the stock room, drowning out the world with Anthrax or Black Sabbath, but what the hell has happened to Mikey?

 

"Okay," says the kid. He takes a couple of deep breaths, still pointing the gun at Gerard. "Open the register--slowly! Take out all the cash."

 

Gerard rolls his eyes. "There's, like, three bucks in there," he says. "You're wasting your time, man."

 

"I don't care! Just do it!" The kid sounds like he's on the brink of hysteria. "Hands up, keep your hands up!"

 

Gerard frowns. "How am I supposed to empty the register _and_ keep my hands up? Have you even thought this through, like, at all?"

 

It's at that moment that the door swings open and Frank steps inside, freezing as he takes in the situation. The kid has his back to the door and doesn't notice, but Gerard tries to telegraph _where the fuck have you been_ and _a little help would be appreciated right about now_ with his face without tipping the would-be robber off. While Frank is still standing by the door looking only mildly surprised, Gerard spots Mikey and Ray sneaking up behind the kid, using the shelves as cover. About goddamn time, Gerard thinks. "I mean," he says, quickly, trying to distract the kid as Frank drops to his knees and crawls forwards, ducking behind the bargain CD bin. "Haven't you heard? This place is about to go under. You picked a real bad day to try and rob it."

 

The kid's eye twitches. "Stop it," he says. "The register, open it. Right now. I'll--" he swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "I'll shoot you."

 

"Uh huh." Out of the corner of his eye, Gerard watches Frank creeping closer, sticking his head out from behind one of the shelves. "No, man, I totally believe you. You're, uh. A pretty scary guy."

 

"Yeah." The sarcasm misses the kid completely. He nods, his face set. "I'll fuck you up. I will. Open the motherfucking register."

 

Behind the kid, Frank gets silently to his feet. Slowly, slowly, Gerard reaches for the register.

 

"I'm gonna open it," he says. "Just like you said. No sudden moves, no tricks." He isn't worried about the gunman. Gerard is New Jersey born and bred, and he's been threatened by people who meant it and people who didn't. This guy is one of the latter. Gerard is no expert, but the kid is holding the gun like he's trying to keep it from touching his skin. It's pretty clear that he can barely tell one end of the thing from the other. It probably isn't even loaded. If he was going to start shooting the place up, he probably would have done it already.

 

However, Gerard is slightly concerned by the fact that every single one of his esteemed colleagues seems to have dropped a few IQ points somewhere. Why is no one on the phone to the goddamn police, he wonders, while his mouth runs on automatic, stalling. He can only keep this up for so long before the kid remembers that he's here to hold Gerard up, not the other way around. He catches Mikey's eye over the kid's shoulder and tries to project, _I'm fine, just call the cops, you fucking idiot_ , but Mikey just looks puzzled. Well. Puzzled by his own deadpan standards, at least, so still pretty blank compared to, say, a normal person.

 

Gerard sighs.

 

The kid waves the gun threateningly and Gerard tries his best to feel menaced. "Careful," he says blandly, watching Frank edging closer. The sooner Frank can get the gun off him, the sooner this whole tedious mess will be over. "That thing could go off, you know. Aren't you a bit young to be playing with guns?"

 

"I--shut up!" sputters the kid furiously, his face reddening. "You--"

 

"No, really," Gerard says, in the deepest tone of concern he can muster. "Do you even know how to use that thing? I'm pretty sure you're holding it wrong."

 

Closer, closer. Frank takes another step, his eyes flicking backwards and forwards between Gerard and the kid.

 

"That's enough," the kid snarls, and he makes a jabbing motion with the gun.

 

And Frank launches himself towards the kid and they both crash to the ground, Frank spitting and cursing. A vicious, scrappy little scuffle ensues, the pair of them rolling over and over, the kid yelping when his head catches the corner of one of the shelving units.

 

"Unbelievable," Gerard mutters, shaking his head. He'd been expecting Frank to snatch the gun, maybe hold the kid until the cops came, but he can see now that he was sadly mistaken. He supposes it would have been too much to hope for. He can see Ray and Mikey watching with equally shocked expressions.

 

To Gerard's surprise, though, Frank seems to be winning. Not that his opponent was up to much, but Frank has him pinned against the floor, the hand holding the gun still waving wildly.

 

"Get the gun!" Gerard yells, and Frank grunts in acknowledgement as the kid bucks and squirms underneath him. Frank lunges for it, losing his balance and pitching forwards--

 

\--and then there's a crack like thunder and Frank jerks and rolls away.

 

Gerard lets out an involuntary cry of horror, his ears ringing, and scrambles over the counter, stumbling over to where Frank is lying crumpled on the ground. Mikey is already flying towards him, dropping to his knees by Frank's head. The kid is already on his feet and running with Ray hot on his heels.

 

"Ray, get back here!" Mikey - _Mikey_ \- yells, raising his voice for the first time since elementary school. Ray screeches to a halt as the kid speeds past him, and Mikey beckons him back. "We'll catch up with that fucker some other time, stupid shitstain wasn't even wearing a mask," he says impatiently. "Shit, shit. Frank, look at me. You okay?"

 

Frank groans and puts his hand up to his shoulder, where Gerard can see the bullet has scored a narrow red line across his skin and torn his t-shirt. It's bleeding but it doesn't look deep, and Gerard lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

 

"Oh my god," Ray says wildly. "Oh my god. Okay. Don't move. Shit. Frank. Can you see? How many fingers am I holding up?"

 

"He's not _concussed_ , Ray, calm your tits," Mikey snaps.

 

"Calm my--? He's been _shot!_ " Ray splutters. "Frank, look at me. Shit. What do you need? Water? Towels?"

 

"He's not in labor," protests Mikey.

 

"I don't know, I'm panicking!"

 

"Yeah, we can see that," Gerard says, rolling his eyes.

 

"Oh my god," Frank groans, his eyes fluttering closed, and the bickering stops abruptly. "Shut the fuck up."

 

Before Gerard can open his mouth, a thud sounds behind him and he spins around to see Brian, a paper bag of groceries on the floor  beside him, his mouth hanging open. Gerard glimpses the whole sorry scene through his eyes: one employee bleeding all over the lino, the other three gathered around doing absolutely jack shit about it.

 

"I leave you alone for _five minutes_ ," he says, "And someone gets shot."

 

Brian's timely reappearance seems to knock the sense back into everyone. The four of them half-herd-half-carry Frank out to Brian's car, and Mikey dashes back to flip the sign on the door from "open" to "closed" before sprinting back in time to join the vicious fight for the passenger seat. He wins with a bony knee to the back of Ray's thigh that causes him to double over with pain and a pointy elbow to Gerard's ribs, leaving the two of them to clamber into the back with Frank.

 

"How you doing back there?" Brian asks, glancing up at the rear view mirror as he pulls out of the alley with a screech of tires on asphalt.

 

"Fine," says Mikey, with a noncommittal shrug as he tucks his inhaler back into his pocket.

 

"Not _you_ , the gunshot victim!" Brian roars, stomping on the gas.

 

"Okay," Frank says, although he looks pale and shaky and blood is starting to run down his arm, soaking through his t-shirt and coloring his tattoos red.

 

"Don't you dare bleed all over my upholstery," warns Brian. "Ray, take your shirt off."

 

"I-- _what?_ " Ray splutters, folding his arms protectively across his chest as they round a corner with a shriek of protesting tires.

 

"Am I speaking fucking Japanese?" Brian thunders. "Take your shirt off and hold it where he's fucking bleeding. Jesus Christ, what am I, a babysitter?"

 

"Make _Gerard_ take his shirt off."

 

"Are you kidding me? Gerard's been wearing that shirt for a week and a half straight--no, turning it inside out and hoping we won't notice is not the same as washing it, by the way--and if he puts that thing anywhere near Frank's head he's gonna catch some horrible bacterial disease and I'm gonna get my ass sued off for letting him do it. So, for the last time, _will you please take off your goddamn shirt?_ "

 

With only a bit more grumbling, Ray wriggles out of his faded Metallica shirt, balls it up and hands it to Frank, who presses it to his shoulder and sucks air through his teeth.

 

"Are you saying my hygiene standards are deficient?" Gerard demands, scowling at the back of Brian's head.

 

"That is exactly what I'm saying," Brian says distractedly, slamming on the brakes as they hit a red light. "Now, will everybody please shut the fuck up and just let me drive?"

 

 

*

 

 

"I'm fine," Frank insists, swatting the doctor's hands away from his blood-matted hair. "It's just a little cut, it's not deep. Jesus, I'm surrounded by my mom but, like, four of her."

 

"It isn't deep, you're right," the doctor murmurs, ignoring Frank's hiss of pain as he gently pushes Frank's bloody hair away from the cut. "You're very lucky."

 

"See?" Frank says. "Fine. I've hurt myself worse than this playing shows."

 

"You're in a band?" Ray says.

 

"Shut the fuck up, Toro. You want me to injure your head for you too?"

 

"I'm going to clean this up and give you a few stitches, okay?" says the doctor, interrupting Frank and Ray's bickering.

 

"Fine," Frank growls, still glaring at Ray.

 

When the doctor starts dabbing something that smells like Gerard's paint thinner on Frank's shoulder, Frank hisses and curses a blue streak, gripping the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles go white under all the ink. Gerard has to look away when the needle and thread come out, but Frank doesn't make another sound. Gerard figures that he's just so used to having needles stuck in him that it doesn't even freak him out that someone is literally sewing him back together.

 

Once Frank has been given the all clear, the four of them sit around and wait while Brian phones the police. A girl called Jamia arrives, evidently summoned via text by Frank, and proceeds to punch him hard in the shoulder and call him a fucking idiot. Gerard warms to her immediately. She tells him off for a few more minutes before announcing that she's going out for a smoke, and Frank follows her.

 

Gerard, Mikey and Ray loiter in the waiting room. Mikey has his Sidekick out and is texting furiously. For someone who tries so hard to seem disinterested in everything and everyone, he's the worst gossip Gerard knows. Ray looks uncomfortable in the sickly green hospital scrubs the nurse handed him when she took his bloodstained t-shirt from Frank, fidgeting and drumming his fingers against the edge of the plastic chair. Gerard feels wrung out, somehow off-balance. It's hardly surprising, he thinks, looking out through the glass doors at Frank and Jamia. Someone was nearly shot today, and it could just as easily have been Gerard. That's a near-near-death experience. No wonder he feels off.

 

Outside, in the last of the sunshine, Jamia wraps an arm around Frank and he gives her a playful shove before dropping a kiss on top of her head. Gerard kicks Mikey in the shin to get his attention.

 

"Hey," he says, "Did you know they were together?"

 

Mikey squints at the two of them. Frank very deliberately steps on Jamia's foot. She knees him in the back of the leg and he goes stumbling.

 

"They're not together," Mikey says, returning his attention to his Sidekick.

 

"Uh, how would you know?"

 

"She's not his type. Anyway, look at them," says Mikey. Temporarily putting aside the information that Mikey apparently knows what Frank's type is, Gerard does. He watches Jamia lighting up another smoke and handing it to Frank.

 

Gerard isn't convinced. "Five bucks says they're fucking," he says.

 

"You know I don't have five bucks. Anyway, why do you care?"

 

"I don't," says Gerard, immediately.

 

Mikey gives him a sidelong look. "Okay."

 

"Fine."

 

They both lapse into silence, Mikey still texting and Gerard gazing moodily out into the gathering dusk.

 

"Okay," says Brian, several minutes later, his own cell phone back in his pocket. He looks exhausted, grey-faced, ten years older. "That's about it for now. Gerard, they're gonna send someone to take a statement from you sometime next week, hopefully track this son of a bitch down. They think it's the same guy that's been holding up other stores around here."

 

"Mhm," Gerard says. He's suddenly very tired.

 

Brian grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes. "I guess you can all go home," he says. "But I still want you in at nine thirty tomorrow, okay?"

 

 

*

 

 

Gerard lives in an extremely small apartment two blocks down from the Needle. The building is a wreck, baking hot and airless in the summer and cold and leaky in the winter. The elevator hasn't worked in at least ten years, the window frames are crumbling and even a light breeze causes the walls to groan and creak alarmingly, but the rent is cheap. Brian pays his employees as much as he can afford to, but it still isn't much, and Gerard has certain habits to support. Beer, for instance, and records. Paying rent is not high on Gerard's list of priorities, which is partly why he so rarely remembers to do it on time. Mikey has an apartment in the same block, but Gerard doesn't know why he bothers - Mikey is almost never there, he seems to divide his time between Gerard's couch and the beds of his various attractively disheveled scene kid hookups.

 

Gerard huffs and pants his way up the stairs, cursing the broken elevator and his shitty smoker's lungs, his beat-up old messenger bag bumping against his thigh with every step. He made a detour to the liquor store on his way home, and although his wallet is now a lot lighter, he's glad of the weight of the handle of vodka now jammed into his bag. Beer is great, but it's been a weird fucking day and there are times when beer just isn't enough. The bottle clanks against his keys, and he reaches down to muffle the noise when old Mrs. Janczak passes him on her way down, giving her a guilty smile. She smiles back, and he remembers that she's as deaf as a post and removes his hand from the bottle.

 

When he reaches his door, he fumbles for his keys and pulls them out, swearing under his breath at nothing in particular. The door hinge is stiff, but he wedges his shoulder against it and shoves it open with practiced ease. He shambles through to the tiny living room, shedding clothing as he goes. One of his sneakers ends up under the couch he found on the street last winter, the other one hits the leg of the wobbly Formica table he salvaged from the same fifties diner that provided the Needle with its counter stools. The table collapses with a bang. Gerard heaves a long-suffering sigh, and promises himself that he'll fix it later. It's definitely fixable. Probably.

 

He looks around, and wonders idly what he could sell or exchange for a new table.

 

His gaze falls on the hulking stereo system in the corner, painstakingly cobbled together over a period of years. It's pretty much the only thing in the apartment that Gerard hasn't seriously considered pawning at some point. Assembled from begged, borrowed and stolen parts, it has a CD player, a turntable and a tape deck, and the speakers are a pair of old studio monitors that Gerard bought dirt cheap when Electric Sheep went out of business. Ray had his eye on them for his home studio, and he didn't speak to Gerard for a week after Gerard brought them home. It looks like shit but it sounds like heaven, and Gerard is deeply in love with it. Beside the stereo is a cheap bookshelf, put together by Gerard with Mikey's "help" one grey September evening, groaning under the weight of Gerard's extensive CD and vinyl collection. Propped up next to the bookshelf is a shitty electric guitar Gerard knows he's never going to learn to play but doesn't quite have the heart to get rid of.

 

He sighs again, flings his jacket over the back of the couch and slumps down, his skin sticking to the cracked brown leatherette. He removes the vodka from his bag and rummages in the debris at his feet until he finds half a bottle of off-brand cola, now gone warm and flat, and a red Solo cup that has definitely been used at least once. Balancing the cup on his knee, he pours several fingers of vodka into it and tops it up with a splash of cola. He takes a swig, and grimaces. Pretty nasty, but it'll get him good and drunk, so it'll do.

 

He turns on the fourth-hand TV set and channel surfs idly for a while - a shoot-em-up action movie, one of those weird-ass TLC documentaries, a Lifetime movie, some black and white old Hollywood thing, a re-run of The Fresh Prince of Bel Air. He finishes his drink in short order and haphazardly mixes another one. What the fuck happened today? Things at the Needle have been the same day in and day out for months - hell, _years_ \- and now, in the space of two days, Brian has announced that they're all going to lose their jobs and Frank was nearly shot. Almost more surprisingly, Frank actually acted almost like a human being for five minutes. Weird. And then, as if that wasn't enough, there was that bizarre moment with Jamia at the hospital. What the hell was that about?

 

Gerard scowls, sipping at his vodka and coke and sinking deeper into the couch cushions. He doesn't like change, and he's had about as much of it as he can handle for today. He watches a few more minutes of commercials before the TV switches back to a cartoon, and he flips the channel again. He's not proud of the fact that he can't watch cartoons anymore, not since Cartoon Network. Whatever. He's fine, he's totally fine. He's doing okay without those jerks. He has a job and an apartment and friends. Well, maybe not friends, as such. And, he thinks, with an unpleasant lurch in his stomach, maybe not a job or an apartment for much longer, either. Shit. The boozy buzz is creeping up on him slowly, too slowly to damp his twitchy, scattered sense of anxiety, and he abandons the Solo cup, upends the cola into the vodka bottle and takes a long drink from that instead.

 

He wonders how Frank is doing. Gerard knows he's a scrappy little fucker, but he was almost shot in the head earlier. Knowing him, he's probably back in a mosh pit already. Gerard reaches for his chunky antique cell phone, thinking vaguely of texting him. He's just drunk enough to think it's a good idea, but sober enough that he won't do anything embarrassing like imply that he actually gives a shit about how Frank's dumbass head is feeling. He actually has the phone in his hand before he remembers firstly that he doesn't have Frank's number, has never even thought about speaking to him outside the four walls of the Needle before today, and secondly that he's probably with Jamia.

 

Gerard throws his cell phone at the wall, and it leaves a spider's web of cracks in the cheap plaster.

 

When his phone chimes half an hour later, he's several drinks in and it takes him a long time to remember where it is. Eventually, he lurches clumsily off the couch and picks it up and squints at the screen, willing the letters to focus. One new text message, it reads. He opens it.

 

_im coming over. better hide ur porn._

 

It's from Mikey, which is hardly surprising as Mikey is pretty much the only person who ever texts him. He manages a one letter response - _k_ \- and settles back down on the couch.

 

Less than five minutes later, he hears Mikey's shitkicker boots on the stairs and then the snick of a key in the door. Mikey barges his way in with less finesse than Gerard, finally stumbling into the living room cursing and massaging his shoulder.

 

"Hey," Gerard says blearily as Mikey slouches over and flops down next to him on the couch. Mikey pulls out his inhaler and takes a couple of puffs before returning it to his pocket.

 

"I felt kind of... bummed out," Mikey says, and from his voice Gerard can tell he's not the only one who's been drinking.

 

"I thought when you were bummed out you just went out, got high and fucked someone you shouldn't," Gerard says.

 

Mikey doesn't get offended, mainly because it's true. He makes a blurry noise of assent and turns sideways, stretching out and swinging his legs over Gerard's. "'S weird," he mumbles, his glassy eyes now fixed on the TV screen. "Didn't feel like it today."

 

"Right? The fuck," Gerard says, with feeling. "With the store, and Frank and--what was that whole thing with Jamia? That was weird, right?" He's... curious. That's all. Before yesterday, he hadn't even considered the possibility that anyone would be able to tolerate Frank without straight up murdering him for long enough to date him.

 

Mikey gives him a too-knowing sidelong look. Damn, damn, damn. They haven't been hanging out as much as they used to and Gerard had forgotten how inconveniently sharp Mikey can be, even when he's halfway out of his head.

 

"Not really," Mikey says slowly. "Why?"

 

"Nothing. Forget it." Gerard shakes his head impatiently. "I'm just kind of, you know. Whatever. You want a drink?"

 

Mikey says nothing, just holds out his hand. Gerard passes him the bottle and Mikey necks a large mouthful before he hands it back.

 

"Anyway," says Gerard. Time to change the subject. "How about you and Pete, huh?"

 

Mikey blinks slowly at him. "Pete who?" he says, in a very unconvincing mock-oblivious voice.

 

Gerard snorts and shoves him. Mikey sways dangerously. "Fuck off," Gerard says. "He can't even look at you without drooling."

 

Mikey shudders theatrically. Gerard grins. It's like pulling at a thread on a fraying sweater, he knows he shouldn't but he can't resist. "Come on," he wheedles, nudging Mikey with one foot for emphasis. "What's the worst that could happen? Give the guy a chance, I'm sure he has... good points," he says lamely.

 

"Why don't _you_ date him?" Mikey says. He snatches the bottle back and drinks deeply, glaring at Gerard all the while.

 

"Aw, Mikes, I couldn't. You worried he's gonna damage your hipster cred? What's the matter, huh? He's single, you're looking for a sugar daddy--"

 

And then Mikey shoves Gerard so hard that he slides off the couch and onto the floor, Gerard retaliates by grabbing Mikey's belt and pulling Mikey down with him, the nasty vodka/coke mix slops all over both of them, and the whole conversation is mercifully forgotten.

 

 

*

 

 

When Gerard and Mikey get to the Needle the next morning, there's no sign of Frank or Ray.

 

"Hey, Ray? D'you think you could--oh, it's you two," says Brian, when he sticks his head out of the office. "Shit. Only ten minutes late. If this isn't a sign of the end of days I don't know what is. What next? Rain falling upwards? Mikey actually doing something useful around here?"

 

"Funny," says Mikey darkly. "Real funny." He crosses to the stereo and looks over at Gerard. "Morrissey?" he says.

 

Gerard considers. As he and Mikey arrived together, it only seems fair that the music should be a joint decision, and the Smiths are one of the few bands they agree on.

 

"Okay," he says. "Sure."

 

Gerard cues up Hatful of Hollow and sits back down in front of the page still bearing the title _OPERATION: SAVE THE NEEDLE_ and not a lot else. He sighs, staring down at the blank, accusing page.

 

Frank arrives an hour later with nothing but the dressing on his arm to suggest that he was nearly shot yesterday. He's wearing a yellow t-shirt with a picture of a rooster on it. Underneath, it reads, _Ask me about my cock!_

 

"Classy," says Gerard. Frank ignores him.

 

"Frank, I swear to god," Brian says, sticking his head out of his office to glare at Frank. "You stubborn son of a bitch, you promised me you'd take the day off today."

 

"Tried," Frank says. "Got bored. Thought I might as well come in."

 

Brian shakes his head in exasperation and disappears again.

 

"Why are you here?" Gerard says, suspiciously. Frank is the dude who regularly contracts "the flu" and spends weeks at a time in bed out of his head on prescription painkillers. Given that this time he as an actual gunshot wound, Gerard would have expected him to be gone for at least a month.

 

Frank scowls. "I went home," he mutters. "Home-home, I mean, my mom and dad's place. My mom wouldn't stop..." he makes a vague hand gesture, " _Feeding_ me, and my dad wouldn't shut up about how I should have got the gun off the guy and I was losing my fucking mind. Also, I don't think I can eat any more bread. Like, I can hardly move right now."

 

Gerard snorts, then remembers that Frank was sort of shot yesterday and that Gerard should probably try for a bit more sympathy. "Sorry," he says. He kind of wants to ask how Frank is doing - call it morbid curiosity - but he can't figure out how to ask the question without making it sound like he actually _cares_ about how Frank is doing. "So," he says. "You're not dead."

 

Nailed it, he thinks to himself.

 

Frank shrugs with his good shoulder. "Nah," he says. "Not yet, anyway."

 

It isn't exactly an in-depth answer, but Gerard doesn't want to push his luck. He feels like it's time to change the subject. There's one other thing he wants to know about, but he has to be subtle about it.

Subtle. He can be subtle. How hard can it be?

 

"You and Jamia, huh?" he says. Okay, maybe not all that subtle after all. Whatever, it saves time.

 

"Nah," says Frank. He's drawing on his own hands again. "We tried it, for a while, back in college. It just got weird."

 

"Oh?"

 

Frank shrugs again and starts coloring his nails in black, but he doesn't say another word on the subject.

 

Tired of trying to make conversation with Frank, Gerard returns his attention to the page in front of him. His mind wanders, and he glances down at the fliers that Hambone left on the counter. They're obviously black and white copies of a single cut-and-pasted original, artfully mismatched letters forming the words _Pencey Prep_ and, underneath, a date and the name of a local dive bar. The photo in the background is a grainy shot of a band, and the guitarist clutching the mic like a lifeline is--

 

Gerard narrows his eyes, looking more closely. That's Frank. That's definitely Frank. "Huh," he says.

 

"What?" says Frank.

 

Gerard ignores him. He picks out Hambone in the shadows at the side of the stage, his head bowed over his own guitar, and what he can see of the drummer's face looks vaguely familiar too.

 

He shakes himself and drags himself back to his list of fundraising ideas. The list is still non-existent, but he's got the title down, for sure. He taps the end of his pen against his teeth. He drums his fingers on the counter and rubs his temples and kicks his feet against the scuffed carpet. He stares intently at the sheet of paper and hopes that words will appear on it of their own volition. He doodles a tiny bat in the corner of the page.

 

And then he looks back at the stack of fliers, and it clicks.

 

 

*

 

 

"It's a terrible idea," says Ray. "Like. The worst thing I've ever heard."

 

Gerard looks pleadingly at Brian, who still looks slightly shell-shocked.

 

"Sorry, sorry," he says. "I'm just--how come you guys suddenly care what happens to this place? When I told you about it the other day none of you gave a shit."

 

Mikey, of all people, shuffles his feet guiltily. "Since we all realized we'd have to go corporate if you went under," he says, staring fixedly down at the pockmarked lino on the floor.

 

"Yeah," says Ray. "Who else would hire Frank?"

 

"Hey, Mikey's at least as bad as I am," Frank protests.

 

"True," says Mikey.

 

"Anyway," Ray says pointedly, heaving the derailed conversation back onto its tracks. "It's still a terrible idea."

 

They all turn to look at Brian, all squabbles temporarily forgotten.

 

"It is a terrible idea," he says, "But it's the best we've got. Mikey? You're in charge of inviting people. We need as many as possible."

 

Mikey presses a couple more buttons on his Sidekick and slides it shut. "Already done."

 

"Good. Okay. Gerard, you're the art department. We need posters, fliers. As quick as you can."

 

"For tomorrow?" Gerard says. "I can't... that's not enough time, I need to make sketches and do some studies, maybe--"

 

"Good man," Brian says, slapping him on the shoulder. "Knew I could count on you. Ray, we'll need PA and a sound guy. That's your job."

 

"I know a guy," Ray says immediately, rummaging in his pockets for his cell. "Let me call him."

 

"Perfect. Frank, get your boys together. You've got a show to play."

 

 

*

 

 

"What are we doing here, again?" Gerard says, tipping his plastic cup of beer back and forth in his hand. He's seriously considering attempting to drown himself in it.

 

"Solidarity?" Ray suggests, not sounding at all convinced. "With, uh..." he trails off, and Gerard glares at him.

 

"I'm defecting," Gerard announces. He makes for the door, but Ray grabs the back of his shirt and reels him back in.

 

"Oh, no," he says darkly. "If I have to suffer, I'm taking you with me."

 

Gerard huffs, but stays where he is. The two of them contemplate the stage in grim silence for a long moment, watching the band plugging in and tuning up, making last minute adjustments as Bob settles in behind the desk and starts to bring the faders up.

 

"They might be really bad," Gerard says unhappily. He drinks some more of his beer. It's warm.

 

Ray makes a miserable noise of agreement.

 

"No," says Gerard, "They might be really, _really_ bad."

 

"I know," Ray says.

 

Up on the stage, Frank ducks his head, raising his hand to shield his eyes from the lights. He looks almost shy, Gerard thinks wonderingly, like this Frank and the punk-ass little shit Gerard has to put up with every day are two completely different people. If anything, Gerard would have expected _that_ Frank to be the stage persona, not this one. Frank's eyes rake over the crowd and, just for a split second, meet Gerard's. Gerard grins, then immediately wipes it from his face, furious with himself.

 

"Get a grip," he mutters, disgusted and Ray glances over at him, one eyebrow raised. Gerard shakes his head, and takes a long sip of his beer. He has to admit, the stage suits Frank. He looks taller, even with his shoulders hunched as he tunes his guitar, his fingers quick and confident.

 

"Alright," Frank says, stepping up to the mic, and the crowd falls silent. "So, uh, as you all know, we're here tonight at the Needle because this dump--" he catches Brian's eye, "--uh, this fine institution is in trouble. All of us here wanna thank you all for coming out tonight!" he smiles then, not the shit-eating grin Gerard knows and barely tolerates, but a true smile, warm and sweet. "So if you wanna, you know, give us all your money, well, that'd be rad because..." he pauses, his eyes flicking back to Gerard's. "Because we all kind of like it here. And we'd hate to have to go."

 

Gerard feels something kindling inside him. Horrified, he takes the only sensible course of action and chugs the rest of his beer and starts on another one. He likes beer. It absolves him of having to think, and that sounds pretty good to him right now.

 

Up on the stage, Frank is finishing off his speech. Under the lights he looks strange, all colorful skin and deep, velvet shadows, his bright white guitar like a moon in the darkness. "We're Pencey Prep," he says, and a few cheers and catcalls rise from the crowd. "And we're not giving up." He glances over his shoulder at the drummer who sets a beat, then the guitars come crashing in, the thudding bass like a heartbeat, and they're away.

 

Gerard is halfway through beer number three when it hits him. "They're... they're not bad," he shouts to Ray, his voice almost lost in the song and the noise of the crowd.

 

Ray looks cautiously relieved, still watching through the fingers of one hand. "They're pretty good," he admits. He scowls. "Goddamnit."

 

Gerard does smile then, at Ray's indignation that Frank has the nerve to be in a band that isn't terrible. Gerard sways slightly on the spot, drinking his beer, enveloped by the people all around him, trying not to think about how this might be one of the last times he'll get to see this awful, wonderful place. He'll miss it, he realizes, actually miss it, not just regret the loss of a cushy job and a tolerant boss.

 

Gerard downs several more beers during Pencey's set, because when he's not drinking he can feel something eating at him and it's a feeling he doesn't like. Instead, he does what he does best, and gets gloriously, monumentally smashed. He takes a stroll past the door where Mikey is still sitting at a trestle table, watching the donations jar like a bed-headed, heavily eyelinered hawk. Mikey catches Gerard's eye and one corner of his mouth quirks up, the closest he ever gets to a full-on grin, and he scoops a large handful of coins and crumpled bills out of the jar and into a cash box, which he locks again and slides back under the table.

 

"Half full," he explains, indicating the jar. "People know what it's for but they feel sorry for us and put more money in."

 

"Ahhhh," Gerard says, nodding wisely. It makes no sense to him, but Mikey obviously has it all under control.

 

Gerard makes his way back inside, threading his way through the crowd until he has a good view of the stage. He sways happily on the spot as Pencey rip through the rest of their set, Frank throwing himself around as if the music is running through him like an electric current. There is absolutely no doubt in Gerard's mind that Pencey Prep are the best band in the world, past, present and future, for ever and ever, amen. They're Gerard's favorite band. They've _always_ been his favorite band.

 

He waits as the band stumble off stage, sweaty and tousled and grinning. He watches while Frank tucks his guitar back into the case and props it carefully against the wall, and tries to get his words in order. He knows what he wants to say but the words keep sliding around inside his head, over and under, floating in a river of beer. He probably shouldn't have got so drunk, but he knows, in some far-off, disconnected way, that he definitely wouldn't be doing this if he were sober.

 

And then, suddenly, the rest of the band have gone for beer, Frank is finished with his guitar and he's right in front of Gerard, panting and flushed, his damp hair falling into his eyes, his smile blinding. At this moment, Gerard remembers that there was something he wanted to say, but he has no idea what it could have been. He's not sure it matters.

 

"Dude," he says, feeling a stupid grin unfolding across his own face. "Dude. _Frank_. Holy shit."

 

Frank starts to laugh, not at Gerard, but with the almost-hysteria of leftover adrenaline burning off. God, his awful pot laugh. Gerard hates it, except for how he totally doesn't. He _wants_ to hate it, but he can't.

 

"I kept trying to tell you I was in a band," Frank says.

 

Gerard nods emphatically and makes an expansive gesture that somehow ends with his hand on Frank's arm. He thinks about taking it away, but he doesn't. Apart from anything else, the floor is rippling under his feet and he feels like holding onto something is a strategically sound move right now. There are so many things he wants to say. "You were..." he starts, trying to get his train of thought back on track. "Shit, man. You were incredible."

 

He's expecting Frank to brush it off, but instead, Frank goes still.

 

"Yeah?" he says, his voice turning soft and his face unguarded and--hopeful.

 

Gerard is very aware of his hand on Frank's arm. It hits him, suddenly, like a punch to the gut, that they probably won't see each other again if the Needle closes its doors. This is the first time he's even laid eyes on Frank outside of work hours; their social circles don't overlap at all. This person - this awful, irritating jerk, adds the sober part of his brain - that Gerard has seen every day for five whole years is going to be gone from his life, just like that. For some reason, that thought makes him kind of sad.

 

And suddenly - he isn't sure how it happens - Frank's mouth is on his. He makes a startled squawking noise and Frank starts to pull away, but Gerard manages to re-engage his brain just in time to get one hand around the back of Frank's head and keep him there. Gerard can feel Frank's lip ring against the corner of his mouth and he's pretty sure that if Frank stops kissing him he will literally drop dead.

 

"Whoa," he pants, when they both pause for breath. "Hold up, hold up. The fuck was that?"

 

"Search me," Frank says. His eyes are bright, his words a little slurred, his mouth wet and open. He licks his lips. "You wanna do it again?"

 

Gerard doesn't answer, just reels him in by the front of his shirt and mashes their mouths together. There's too much beer in the equation for it to be particularly smooth or controlled, and they end up bumping heads before coming apart again. Frank looks so surprised that Gerard cracks up and then that's it, they're both gone, both gasping for breath and laughing helplessly between kisses.

 

Frank's hands snake around Gerard's back, gently pushing him backwards, and Gerard is almost surprised to find himself up against a wall with the length of Frank's body pressed against his.

 

"Whoa," he says. "That was. That was pretty smooth."

 

Frank grins against his mouth. "See? I got moves," he says, and he sounds so ridiculous that Gerard starts laughing again. He keeps laughing until Frank catches his lip between his teeth, and Gerard makes a really embarrassing noise.

They're into serious making out territory now, and Gerard is more than okay with that. He's maybe a little too okay with that. Frank makes a low, purring noise that Gerard feels rather than hears, and lets his body go boneless as Frank crowds in closer, kissing him greedily.

 

"It's--ah--funny," Gerard gasps, feeling Frank's teeth on his jaw. "I like you a lot better when you're not talking."

 

"Oh, really? I was going to say the same about you," Frank says immediately, but Gerard can feel Frank's grin pressed against his skin. In retaliation, Gerard runs one hand down Frank's back and grabs his ass. If he has to put up with Frank's smart mouth, he might as well enjoy the rest of him. Frank startles and makes a funny, high-pitched noise that has Gerard laughing again.

 

"Oh my god," he says, weakly, leaning into the wall for support, still shaking with laughter. He's dimly aware of the crowd starting to leave, but he couldn't care less. He's pleasantly drunk and currently being kissed senseless. That's all that matters. Frank's hands are in his hair, Frank's mouth hot and wet on his neck. Gerard realizes that he wants this, wants it bad, wants it more than he would have believed possible even a week ago. He wants _Frank_. That simple thought rings true even through the boozy haze, and Gerard accepts it with only a pinch of resentment. God, he is going to be _so_ embarrassed when he sobers up, but Frank is kissing him again and grinding his hips against Gerard's thigh, and he's finding it really hard to be upset.

 

"Motherfucker," he mumbles into Frank's mouth, and Frank's answering grin is luminous, incandescent. Gerard lets his legs fall open and Frank makes a surprised but pleased sound. His body fits easily against Gerard's, and Gerard is glad Frank had the foresight to push him into a dark, secluded corner of the store.

 

And then Frank shifts, and he's hard and ready and rubbing up against Gerard like a cat in heat.

 

"Oh," he says, because his mouth seems to have unplugged itself from his brain. " _Oh_. Okay. That's your dick."

 

Frank cracks up again, but he doesn't pull away. "Okay," he mumbles, nosing at the frayed collar of Gerard's shirt. "Don't take this the wrong way or anything. I still think you're a douchebag."

 

"Oh, no, yeah," Gerard says quickly. "The feeling's mutual, you're an asshole."

 

"Right," agrees Frank. "But, like. That said, d'you wanna have sex?"

 

Gerard thinks about it for all of a second and a half. "I could, uh," he says, trying very hard to sound casual in spite of that thing Frank is doing with his hips. "I could go for that, yeah."

 

Frank is already looking over his shoulder. "Where... I mean, don't get me wrong, I'd totally do you up against this wall, but I'm pretty sure Brian would have a heart attack."

 

"Uh," Gerard says, his brain momentarily stalled by the way Frank's mouth looks wrapped around the words _I'd totally do you up against this wall_. This is probably just a one-time thing, he might as well keep that one for his spank bank.

 

And then inspiration strikes.

 

Gerard smiles, slow and lazy. "What do you say we go make a mess in listening booth four?"

 

Frank's eyes light up. "Oh my god," he says. "Oh my _god_. You're-- shit, _yes_. Let's go." He's laughing, and he grabs Gerard by the hand and hauls him over to the row of shabby listening booths. Gerard stumbles after him, feeling all of seventeen again, drunk and stupid and lit from within. Frank heaves the door open and bumps into the doorframe, and Gerard follows him inside.

 

The booth is small and cramped, a dimly-lit, closet-like space with a wobbly chair and a turntable. Frank knocks into the chair and falls back against the wall and Gerard has to pause for a moment to drink in the sight of him, already sweaty and tousled from the stage and just--god. He's still an asshole, but right now he's an asshole that Gerard wants to fuck six ways from Sunday. Frank looks him dead in the eye and tips his head back like a challenge, like a dare. Gerard meets his gaze and takes a slow step - more of a shuffle, really - towards him in the small space. He can feel the heat rolling off Frank's skin. He wants to touch it. Gerard slides one hand up under Frank's shirt and Frank shudders, his eyes falling half-closed. Gerard moves in and kisses him again, pinning him to the wall.

 

"You know," he says indistinctly into Frank's mouth, "You fucking stink. You're pretty gross right now."

 

"Yeah? So gross you don't wanna bang me?" Frank mumbles, and Gerard huffs a laugh. Frank does stink, of sweat and beer and stale cigarette smoke, and Gerard doesn't think he's ever wanted anyone so badly. Frank is kissing him clumsily, hungrily, and Gerard knows he's going to regret it if he comes in his pants but right now but god, it would feel so good just to rut against Frank until he does. He forces himself to pull back, just a little.

 

"What d'you wanna... do?" he says, his eyes flicking between Frank's eyes and his wet mouth.

 

"Oh, man," Frank says, with feeling, skimming his hands down Gerard's sides. It's been a long time since Gerard was with anyone who touched him like this, like they just couldn't keep their hands off him. Getting it from Frank is downright weird, but... pretty nice, actually.

 

Frank is still running his mouth, settling one hand on the small of Gerard's back and the other in his hair, pulling him close. "If we had more space I'd ride you, just fuckin' sit on your dick, maybe bend you over and fuck you into next week, get down on my hands 'n knees and spread my legs for you..." He's slurring a little but his eyes are bright and sharp and holy shit, he's got a dirty mouth. Gerard could come like this, just listening to him talk about all the things they could do. He lets out an involuntary moan, his cock painfully hard in his jeans.

 

"Jesus," he chokes out. "You're--wow."

 

Frank laughs, low and throaty. "You like that? Shame all we've got is a fucking closet."

 

Gerard is officially out of patience. "Pants," he says, going for Frank's belt buckle. "Off. Now." Not up to his usual standards, maybe, but under the circumstances, it's about as many words as Gerard can string together without his train of thought derailing. Frank seems to get it, though, because he reaches down between them and goes to work. His fingers are quick and clever - guitarist hands, thinks Gerard, Jesus - and he has it undone in no time, pushing his own jeans and boxers down to his thighs.

 

Gerard works his hand down between them, figuring that if he can get his hand on Frank's dick, Frank might stop talking. He gropes for Frank's cock and wraps his fingers around it, and Frank's breath hitches on a gasp. Gerard feels the warmth and the weight of it in his hand and  runs his thumb through the bead of wetness at the tip. It makes the slide so good, sweet and easy, and he starts jacking Frank off fast and messy. It takes Gerard a minute to find an angle that doesn't cause him to bang his elbow against the back wall with every stroke, but Frank doesn't seem to mind. They're so close that Gerard can only see one part of Frank at a time - Gerard's eyes flicker between his mouth, the sheen of sweat in the hollow between his collarbones, the scorpion on his neck, his cock sliding in and out of Gerard's own fingers - and it's somehow better, hotter than being able to spread him out and look at all of him at once. Frank is gorgeously responsive, his hips bucking and his hands clenching in Gerard's hair and in the back of his shirt. He's noisy, too, letting out a little _ah_ with each breath, moaning and whimpering.

 

"That's - ah - that's good, that's so good," Frank pants, his damp hair plastered to his face, thrusting sloppily into Gerard's hand.

 

"So fucking hot, shit," Gerard says weakly, and then, a second later, realizes he said it out loud.

 

"Yeah?" Frank looks almost shy, which Gerard thinks is almost unbearably sweet, given that he has one hand on Frank's dick.

 

Gerard hesitates, a sarcastic comeback on the tip of his tongue, but then he changes his mind. "Yeah," he says, breathlessly. "Yeah."

 

"Can you--faster?" Frank says, his eyes falling half-closed. Gerard speeds up, captivated by the desperate little noises Frank is making and the pretty flush in his cheeks.

 

"Like that?"

 

"Oh, god, yeah, just like that," Frank whines, his own rhythm stuttering. "Oh, _shit_..."

 

And he comes, hard, all over Gerard's hand and the front of his shirt. His head lolls back, a totally blissed-out look on his face. The back of his head hits the wall with a thud, and he opens his eyes. "Ow," he says.

 

Gerard laughs so hard it hurts.

 

"Don't know what you're laughing at," Frank says, but lazily, with none of his usual hostility. "You're the one with jizz on your shirt."

 

Gerard wipes the worst of Frank's come off his shirt and wipes it down Frank's instead. He reaches down distractedly, palming his own cock through his jeans, and Frank glances down.

 

"What, no whiskey dick, old man?" he says, his voice wrecked and breathless.

 

"Fuck you," Gerard giggles, weak with laughter and arousal. "Fuck you, oh my god. Come _on_."

 

"Okay," says Frank. "Okay. Let me..." And he drops to his knees, shuffling around to fold his legs under him and Gerard seriously wonders if he's died and gone to heaven.

 

"How the fuck did you do that?" Gerard says. He has to admit it, he's impressed. It's an impossibly small space, and yet Frank has managed to fold himself into it as easily as if his legs were made of paper.

 

Frank looks up at him with a distinctly feral grin. "Perks of being a short-ass," he says.

 

"Your knees are gonna hurt like a bitch tomorrow," says Gerard's mouth, while his brain despairs of him. There's a pretty boy on his knees with his mouth inches from Gerard's cock, and Gerard is trying to talk him out of it. Unbelievable.

 

But Frank's grin doesn't fade or falter. "I know," he says. "That's my favorite part. Stop laughing, fucker, you want me to suck your dick or not?"

 

"I'm not laughing," Gerard protests, but he can't quite get the words out. Mainly because he's laughing too hard. He pets Frank's hair in a soothing sort of way, only narrowly avoiding poking him in the eye.

 

And he sinks down and takes Gerard into his mouth and Gerard's brain just... stops. Frank is really, really fucking good with his mouth, taking Gerard deep. It's hot and wet and sloppy, Frank's lips already spit-slick where they're stretched around Gerard's cock. He's got one hand on the back wall and  the other on Gerard's hip, and Gerard really isn't going to last. He stares down at Frank, his wet mouth and his sweaty hair and his eyelashes dark against his cheekbones, and tries to fix the image in his mind.

 

Frank looks up at him, meeting his eyes, and flicks his tongue over the head of Gerard's cock. Gerard moans, his knees going weak.

 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he pants. His legs are trembling and his bones have turned to honey, he knows he won't last. He can feel himself thrusting into Frank's mouth, but he can't help himself. This is easily the best drunk sex he's ever had. Actually, this is probably the best sex he's ever had, period. Frank doesn't bother with any more fancy stuff, just sinks down and sucks hard, and Gerard can feel his stomach tightening. "I'm _\--shit_ \--I'm close, I'm close," he gasps, tugging warningly on Frank's hair, every inch of his skin on fire.

 

Frank pulls off just in time, and Gerard's come splatters across his face. Gerard stares down at him, dazed, his limbs heavy and his heart still kicking. "Oh my god," he says. Frank is grinning, blissed out, and Gerard helps him to his feet. Gerard has to take a minute just to look at him, hot and flushed and fucked-out, Gerard's come drying on his face, his mouth wet and open and his eyes huge and dark. Gerard's brain stalls, because - wow. This Frank is different again to the self-assured musician Gerard saw up on the stage, and Gerard is beginning to wonder just what else he's spent the last five years being wrong about.

 

And then Frank reaches down and wipes his face on his own t-shirt. Somehow, that one little thing brings home the sheer absurdity of the whole situation, and Gerard starts laughing again. He just had sex - with _Frank_ \- in a listening booth. The two of them lean against each other, both giggling helplessly, sweat cooling on their skin.

 

Frank seems to be thinking along similar lines. "Ray's going to kill us," he says, lazily, smushing his face into Gerard's shoulder.

 

"He's gonna have a heart attack when he finds out," Gerard says. "Maybe he won't get the chance to kill us."

 

Frank sniggers. "He'd find a way. He'd beat our asses from beyond the grave."

 

Gerard grunts. Frank is probably right. He's also warm and boneless and practically _in Gerard's arms_ , and that alone is sending all sorts of funny, confused messages to Gerard's overloaded brain.

 

"'M probably just gonna crash here," Frank yawns. "Too tired to walk all the way home now."

 

"I've got a couch you can have," Gerard says, before he can stop himself. "If you want. I'm, like, two blocks away. I mean. Only if you want to."

 

Frank looks up at him suspiciously, and Gerard rolls his eyes.

 

"It's not like _I_ want you there," he says, and it's almost true. Almost. "I just don't want your dumb ass to get shot again because you tried to walk home smashed at two AM and got into a fight or some shit."

 

One corner of Frank's mouth twitches up. "Okay," he says. "Sure."

 

They pick their way through the dark, quiet store, through the debris of plastic cups and sticky puddles of spilled beer. There's a light on in the office and the door is ajar; Brian must still be here. Hardly surprising, Gerard thinks. The Needle's days are numbered, and he doesn't blame Brian for wanting to make the most of the time they have left. Gerard jerks his head towards the door and presses a finger to his lips, mouthing _Brian_ and miming an exaggerated _shhhh_. Frank rolls his eyes, and Gerard can almost hear him thinking, _no shit, Sherlock_.

 

"Fuck off, Watson," Gerard mumbles, and promptly trips over an empty cardboard box hidden in the deep shadows. He goes sprawling, knocking several CDs off a nearby rack. The noise is deafening, and a moment later, Gerard hears Brian's footsteps.

 

"What the--oh," says Brian, from the doorway of his office. He looks from Frank's guilty face to Gerard, still lying on the floor. " _Oh_. Oh god."

 

"This isn't what it looks like," Frank says, half-heartedly, but Brian holds up a hand and Frank trails off.

 

"Stop talking. Please. For the love of god, not another word. I don't want to know any more. This is already way, way too much. Just... go, and we can all pretend this never happened."

 

Gerard gets sheepishly to his feet and makes a half-assed attempt to pick up the CDs he knocked down, but Brian just groans and waves them away, rubbing his temples.

 

Frank manages to keep a straight face for all of three seconds before he starts laughing.

 

"Asshole," Gerard says, but he's laughing too as they stagger out into the warm night. "Oh my god, did you see Brian's face?"

 

Frank snorts, stumbling a little on an uneven sidewalk slab. "Poor guy's probably scarred for life thanks to you and your big feet."

 

"Yeah, because _you_ were so helpful, just standing there like a fucking idiot."

 

Frank shoves Gerard, not hard, but Gerard is still drunk enough that he reels and nearly steps out onto the road.

 

"Whoa, there," Frank says, grabbing the back of Gerard's shirt and pulling him back onto the sidewalk. "Brian's already had one employee nearly die on him this week, let's not make it two."

 

"You're the one who was running a betting pool on when I'd get run down on this street," Gerard says, only a little sourly.

 

"Yeah, well, that was before I knew you gave such good handjobs."

 

Gerard opens his mouth to say something sarcastic, then closes it again. Frank is right, he does give good handjobs. And good head, although Frank probably won't ever get to find that out. Which seems a shame, now Gerard comes to think about it.

 

The two of them weave their unsteady way along the street, in and out of the pools of orange light cast by the streetlamps. Gerard fumbles a cigarette out of the pocket of his jeans and spends several seconds trying to light it. When it finally catches, he takes a drag and passes it to Frank. Frank looks surprised, but he takes it from Gerard and brings it to his lips. Gerard tries not to stare. He really does have an awfully pretty mouth.

 

They walk in silence for a little while, passing the cigarette back and forth between them. It's... nice. Weird, but nice.

 

"I'm gonna miss it," Frank says, after a minute. "I never thought I would, you know?"

 

"Yeah," says Gerard sadly. "I mean, it's Brian. I kind of can't imagine him anywhere else."

 

They both subside into silence again, and before long they're outside Gerard's building.

 

"This one," Gerard says, yanking the front door open and holding it for Frank. He leads the way across the lobby and over to the stairwell. "Elevator's fucked," he says, apologetically. "Hope you're not too tired."

 

Frank groans, but starts climbing. Gerard follows, and maybe sort of stares at Frank's ass. The fresh air has cleared his head a little and helped sober him up, and if he's not going to enjoy the walk (and he isn't) he might as well enjoy the view (and he is).

 

"Fuck this," puffs Frank. His lungs must be totally shot, Gerard thinks, with the amount he smokes. Not that Gerard can judge. "Fuck this _so hard_. You didn't tell me you lived at the top of a fucking _mountain_ , Jesus _Christ_."

 

"We're still only on the first floor," Gerard points out.

 

Frank's only answer is a stream of such creative swearing that even Gerard is impressed. Gerard can feel the unspoken jibes crowding on the tip of his tongue, but he restrains himself. He refuses to admit it, even to himself, but he's sort of holding out for round two in the morning.

 

They finally reach Gerard's apartment and he unlocks the door, gives it a well-practiced shove in exactly the right spot and it swings open. Gerard reaches for the light switch, and the bare bulb flickers on. He looks at Frank, daring him to say a word about the shoes and clothes strewn across the floor, or the dirty dishes piled in the sink, or the Rorschach patterns of damp on the walls.

 

But Frank doesn't. He walks right in as if it's his apartment, not Gerard's, and makes straight for the couch. After a moment, Gerard goes and sits down next to him.

 

"Thanks for this, I guess," Frank says. Gerard does a slight double-take. Even after everything, it's still jarring to hear Frank being so... nice.

 

"No worries," says Gerard. He wants to tell Frank that he wishes they'd done this sooner. Or at least talked to each other, instead of just bitching at each other all the time. Now he's beginning to sober up again, he's beginning to get the uneasy sense that he's missed a trick. It almost seems unfair that this other Frank has existed the whole time and Gerard is only just discovering him now they're about to go their separate ways. Gerard knows should say something, he _wants_ to say something, something casual and offhand about how they should hang out sometime. But the words won't come, and after a long silence, Gerard stands up again. "I think I'm gonna go to bed," he says. "You need anything?"

 

Frank shakes his head. Gerard wonders if he can see his own unhappiness reflected on Frank's face, or if he's just imagining things. "I'm good," Frank says.

 

"Okay. Okay, I'll just... go to bed."

 

They look at each other for a long moment.

 

"Night," says Frank, and one corner of his mouth pulls up in that funny little half-smile.

 

"Night."

 

Gerard picks his way across the living room to his bedroom door, then lurches over to his bed and slumps down into the tangle of pillows and covers. He's so tired. He should get up, get undressed, take his shoes off, maybe drink some water, but his limbs are so heavy. Five minutes, he thinks. Just five minutes.

 

He closes his eyes.

 

 

*

 

 

He wakes the next morning to sunlight spilling through the window and across his face. He whimpers and rolls over, shielding his eyes. He feels like death warmed over, and the fucking sunshine isn't helping. He needs Advil and a pint of coffee, but since neither of those things are within arm's reach, he's going to have to wait until he feels like he can safely get up without puking.

 

The night before comes back to him slowly, bit by bit. The crowd, the band--and Frank. Frank playing his heart out, Frank backing him up against the wall and kissing him, Frank on his knees in the listening booth.

 

His face still smushed into the pillow, Gerard cringes. They have a hard enough time working together as it is. Somehow, he doesn't think the small matter of the stupid drunk sex is going to improve things. "Awkward," he mumbles, his voice muffled by the pillow.

 

Unable to put it off any longer, he grimaces and rolls out of bed to land with a thud on the floor. He heaves himself to his feet and pauses for a minute, waiting for his stomach to settle and his head to stop spinning. Once he's halfway sure that neither his head or his stomach poses an immediate threat, he makes his way through to the living room. The sunlight hits him like a truck, and he swears and covers his eyes. Once they've adjusted and the stabbing pain in his head has eased again, he looks around and surveys the damage.

 

Frank is gone. That's the first thing Gerard notices, and he couldn't honestly say that he's surprised. It's probably for the best, he thinks. It was fun while it lasted and if things get uncomfortable between them, well. Maybe it's a good thing that the Needle might soon be closing its doors.

 

He puts aside his mixed feelings of disappointment and relief about the whole mess. He has more important things to think about, like what the hell he's going to do with himself when the store closes. Instead, he goes in search of coffee. Judging by the sun outside, it's pretty late. There's no time to fire up his ancient coffee pot, so he spoons instant powder from the emergency tin into a mug. He checks his reflection in the kettle as it boils, grimaces, and shoves his hair back off his face. He looks, if possible, even worse than he feels. His hair is a snarled-up rat's maze of grease, his face is criss-crossed with the imprints of the creases in his pillowcase and his clothes have that rumpled, slept-in look that only comes from actually sleeping in them. His eyes are puffy, his chin is covered in patchy, blueish stubble, and he's aware of the heady bouquet of stale sweat, beer and cigarettes that's now so deeply ingrained in him that it's almost an intrinsic part of his being.

 

He squints at his reflection for a moment longer, then shrugs. No time to do anything about it now, so this is as good as it's going to get. He picks up the kettle and splashes boiling water into the mug. There's no sugar left, and he sniffs cautiously at the milk in the fridge but even that makes him gag. So he drinks his coffee black and sugarless, just the way he doesn't like it.

 

Gerard spends thirty seconds searching for his keys, swearing under his breath the whole time, before finding them in the back pocket of the jeans he's been wearing since yesterday (and for several weeks before that as well). He picks up his half-empty coffee mug, figuring that he can drink while he walks, and heads out.

 

It's already hot outside, and Gerard's t-shirt is soon damp and sticking to his skin. He's almost sure his sweat smells like beer. He fucking hates summer, it doesn't suit him. This is a big day, he reflects, sipping at his coffee and wishing he had his sunglasses. Whatever happens this morning is going to change his life, for better or worse. Probably worse. Somehow, this relentless sunshine seems all wrong for the occasion.

 

Whatever. His head hurts like a bitch, his stomach is turning over and over and he's pretty sure he's dying. Fuck the sun, he thinks. Fuck everything. He keeps walking, drinking the rest of his coffee more out of a strange sense of obligation than because he's actually enjoying it. Also, he's trying not to think about what he's going to find waiting for him when he gets there. Now he's got his head together, he's been uncomfortably aware that this could well be the day he loses the only steady job he's ever had.

 

He slows to a halt outside the store, taking a moment to drink it in. The scratched-up, pitted glass in the windows. The peeling sign that he and Frank painted one hot Friday afternoon four summers ago. Mikey's record of the week display, held together with duct tape and prayer. Ray's meticulously constructed and arranged racks of CDs just inside the door, rotated bi-weekly according to the weather, the season and the prevailing socio-political climate.

 

Gerard is going to miss it.

 

He pushes the door open, and steps inside.

 

Mikey, Frank and Ray are all sitting at the counter, apparently waiting for him.

 

"Sorry," Gerard says, sheepishly. "What time is it?"

 

"You're only half an hour late," Ray says. "That's pretty good, by your standards. What happened to you last night? We were looking for you."

 

Gerard chooses to ignore that, and makes his way up to the counter.

 

Mikey squints at him. "Hey," he says. "There, on your shirt. Is that--?"

 

" _Anyway_ ," Gerard says loudly. "What's happening? How much did we take last night?" He's surprised to find that there's a nervous, fluttery sensation in his stomach that isn't just the hangover.

 

"We haven't counted it yet," Frank says. His voice is rough from screaming himself hoarse on stage last night and... other things. Gerard suddenly becomes very interested in his shoes. He's trying to reconcile the regular, annoying Frank with the one who blew him in a listening booth last night and his dick is getting very confused. He risks a glance up and is pleased to see that Frank is also making a point of looking anywhere but at him. Gerard wonders what the protocol is when one has accidentally had mind-blowing sex with a colleague one didn't even think one liked. Gerard doesn't know how best to communicate, non-verbally, that he's totally chill about what happened. Or maybe didn't happen. Whatever. That's how chill he is about it. However, chill-ness aside, that he'd totally be up to go again sometime.

 

"We were waiting for you," says Mikey, and Gerard manages a guilty smile. His mind is still on Frank. It looks like they're pretending it never happened. Gerard mentally waves goodbye to his hopes for a sweet booty call setup. It's a bummer, but it's fine, it's totally fine. He can deal.

 

And then Frank flashes him a slow, sly smile, and Gerard gets this feeling like maybe it really _is_ going to be fine.

 

At that moment, Brian emerges from the office with a locked cash box.

 

"Ah, Gerard, nice to see you're still totally committed to being the worst employee you can be," he says, and puts the cash box down on the counter with a loud thud. "From last night," he explains, opening it up and doling out handfuls of coins and crumpled bills. "It'll be faster if we all count some and add up our totals."

 

"Are you sure about this?" says Ray, looking doubtfully at Frank.

 

"What, you think I'm gonna try and steal it?" Frank says, firing up at once.

 

"No, I was worried about you having to count," Ray snipes back.

 

Brian pinches the bridge of his nose. "Give me strength," he mutters. "You're all fired if you don't shut up. Get counting."

 

 

*

 

 

"Six hundred and eighteen dollars thirty-six," says Ray, quietly. "We've double checked. We're sorry, Brian."

 

Brian looks heartbroken. He's slumped over the counter, his head in his hands. It isn't nearly as funny as Gerard would like it to be. It isn't funny at all. It's just sad.

 

"That's okay," Brian says, in a very strained voice. "Don't worry about it. Thanks for trying, guys. It means a lot."

 

Gerard looks at Ray, waiting for the inevitable, _I told you the gig was a terrible idea_ , but it never comes.

 

Brian sighs, and gets to his feet. He looks like all the fight has gone out of him. He grabs a handful of cash from the pile and stuffs it into the pocket of his jeans. "Okay," he says. "Take five, everybody. I'm going out, I'll be back in a few."

 

He picks his way over to the door, pulls it open and disappears. Gerard stands up.

 

"I'm going for a smoke," he says, eliciting a grunt of acknowledgement from Mikey. He sticks his hand into his own pocket, fingers groping for his lighter, and follows Brian out.

 

"Hey," says a voice, and Gerard turns to see Frank stepping out into the sunshine. Just for a split second, Gerard forgets, and things aren't weird, Frank is just the dickhead Gerard works with, and Gerard is happy to see him.

 

"Hey." Gerard lights his cigarette and offers one to Frank, because what the hell, the world is ending. Frank takes two, lighting one and tucking the other behind his ear for later, and Gerard doesn't even have the heart to pick a fight over it. Silence falls between them, and Gerard tries to work out what it is that he wants so badly to say to Frank.

 

"This fucking sucks," says Frank, suddenly. "Just when everything was actually going okay. I was gonna start paying off my college tuition."

 

Gerard finds, to his surprise, that he doesn't have a single mean thing to say. Frank looks so sad and so young that Gerard just can't bring himself to do it. "Yeah," he says, instead. He sounds miserable, even to his own ears. Silence falls, stretches like chewing gum between them, and then breaks again.

 

"So," Frank says, and Gerard groans inwardly. He'd been kind of hoping to avoid this conversation. Just do it, he tells himself. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. He sighs.

 

"It's cool," he says. "I get it. It happened, whatever. It was fun, but, you know, we're both adults, right? We can pretend nothing happened, it's fine."

 

Frank looks slightly taken aback. "Oh," he says. "That's. Actually totally not what I was gonna say, but okay."

 

"Wait." Gerard looks at him suspiciously. "It wasn't? What were you gonna say?"

 

"I was gonna ask if you wanted to hang out sometime," Frank says quickly, and Gerard gets the sense that he isn't the only one ripping off a metaphorical Band-Aid here. "Not, like. Not as a thing, or anything. Just, you know. To hang out. Since we're not gonna be working together anymore. Me and a few buddies are going to this show next week--"

 

"Oh? Good bands?"

 

"Awful," says Frank cheerfully. "Should be a good time. You should come."

 

Gerard blinks at him, completely thrown. Whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't that. "Um," he says.

 

"I still think you're a dick," says Frank. "You know. Wouldn't want you getting the wrong idea." And he grins, wide and bright, and Gerard finds that he's smiling too.

 

"Okay," he says. "Yeah. I'd like that."

 

"I don't know and I don't want to know," says Brian's voice from behind them, and they both jump guiltily. "Please remain at least two feet apart at all times and go back to your usual infantile bickering, you're making me very uncomfortable."

 

"Sorry, Brian," says Frank, in a profoundly insincere voice. "What's in the bag?"

 

Brian hefts the large paper bag in his arms. "Booze," he says. "Lots and lots of booze. If this is the end, we're going out with a bang."

 

Gerard isn't sure getting trashed on a Thursday morning really qualifies as "going out with a bang", but he figures that Brian is having a bad enough day as it is, so he holds his tongue.

 

"Definitely inappropriate," says Frank. Brian's arms are occupied, so Frank holds the door open for him. "Let's do it. Mikey? Ray?" he calls. "Get your asses over here, we're having a party."

 

 

*

 

 

The five of them have been drinking for two hours when the door swings open.

 

"Fuck off, we're closed," Frank calls, without looking around. He turns to glance over his shoulder. "Oh. Hey, Pete."

 

Pete strolls over to the counter. "Wow, day drinking?" he says, raising an eyebrow at the empty bottles and mismatched glasses arrayed by the register. "Really, guys?"

 

Gerard doesn't even have the heart to tell him to fuck off.

 

"It's a funeral," Mikey says flatly. "You're allowed to get smashed at funerals."

 

"You are? Sweet." Pete produces a flask of his own from somewhere deep inside his enormous hoodie. "Your good health," he says, raising it in a toast and tipping it back. "So, whose funeral is it?"

 

"The store's," Frank says. He too, it seems, is too bummed out to come back with something sarcastic. "We didn't make the cash we needed. Say goodbye while you can."

 

Pete looks stricken. Gerard has a feeling it isn't the fate of the store he's worried about.

 

"What? This place can't close," he says.

 

Frank snorts. "Yeah, like you care. You're just pissed you won't be able to stalk Mikeyway anymore if he has to get an office job."

 

Mikey jabs Frank with a bony elbow. "Asshole," he says, affronted, "Who the fuck would give me an office job?"

 

"True," Frank concedes.

 

"Brian's selling up," Gerard says. "We need twenty grand to keep this place open. We tried, but..." he trails off miserably. He can't even say it. _Six hundred and eighteen dollars and thirty-six cents_ , Ray's voice echoes in his head. Only nineteen thousand, three hundred and eighty-one dollars and sixty-four cents short.

 

Pete looks at Mikey, who nods, just once. He looks even gloomier than usual, withdrawn and sullen.

 

"Wow," Pete says, running his finger around the lip of one of the plastic cups littering the counter. "Tough break."

 

And then he looks up, and his face breaks into a slow, broad grin.

 

Gerard has never punched anyone in his life, but he comes seriously close in that moment. "The fuck," he says, but he doesn't get any further because Frank launches himself across Gerard to get at Pete and tries to grab him by the throat. Pete rears backwards, his chair scraping over the uneven floor - probably a smart move, Gerard thinks.

 

"Son of a cocksucking mother _fucker_ ," Frank snarls, and Gerard seizes him around the middle. As much as Pete deserves it, Ray will only bitch about the mopping up and Gerard wouldn't put it past Brian to stage another customer service workshop.

 

"Woah, woah!" Pete says, his hands raised. There's a deeply wounded look on his face, but, Gerard suspects, less wounded than it would have been if Frank had gotten to him. "Shit, I'm sorry, I guess I touched a nerve."

 

"Something like that." Ray is glaring at him. Ray does this thing sometimes where he reduces a grown man to tears in thirty seconds. Gerard recognizes the warning signs. He might have stopped Frank biting Pete's face off, but Pete is on his own with Ray.

 

"So let me get this straight," Pete says. "You need twenty grand to keep this place open, is that right?"

 

"Yeah," says Mikey coolly. "You can stop rubbing it in now."

 

Pete's smile falters, but only for a split second. "And you all wanna stay?" he says. "I mean, if you could, you'd all want to stay?"

 

Mikey nods, just once, his jaw tight. Ray nods, too, and Gerard follows suit.

 

"What is this, a fucking dashboard bobblehead convention?" Frank grumbles. Gerard is suddenly very aware that his arms are still wrapped around Frank's waist. Frank seems to have temporarily abandoned the idea of grievous bodily harm, so Gerard cautiously releases him. He sits back up, still scowling. "But yeah. I wanna stay."

 

"Okay," Pete says. "Okay." He's fidgeting in his seat, as if with barely contained excitement. He takes a deep breath and says, slowly, tentatively, "I think... I might be able to help you out."

 

Gerard can feel the tension in the room tightening like piano wire, everyone's attention sharpening on Pete. Suddenly, he looks almost uncomfortable.

 

"I, uh," he says, and clears his throat. "I've got some money."

 

"You've got twenty grand?" says Ray incredulously.

 

Pete shrugs. "Yeah," he says.

 

"Pete," says Brian, very levelly for a man who's just downed two beers and five shots of Jack Daniels. "If this is some kind of joke--"

 

"No, I'm serious," Pete insists. "You should've said, we could have done this months ago. My dad keeps telling me I should start building an investment portfolio."

 

Ray lets out a snort of laughter, but at a warning look from Brian, he shuts up.

 

"You've got money," Frank says, staring at Pete. He looks almost hurt, like failing to mention that he happened to have twenty grand burning a hole in his pocket was a major betrayal of trust on Pete's part. "You've got a _lot_ of money."

 

"And you want to spend it on _us?_ " Gerard says. Admittedly, most of his maturing assets are in the form of moldy food "maturing" in his fridge, but if he had twenty thousand dollars, he isn't at all sure he'd bet it on the Needle. Brian gives Gerard a dirty look.

 

Pete shrugs. He looks, for the first time, almost embarrassed. "Yeah," he says. "If you guys want me to."

 

"Hey," says Frank, as if Pete hadn't spoken. "If you're so loaded how come you're still working at that shithole tattoo parlor?"

 

"None taken," says Pete. Then his sheepish look vanishes, and he grins at Mikey. "The view, mainly."

 

Mikey rolls his eyes, but Gerard doesn't miss the minute quirk of his mouth. That was almost a smile.

 

"Pete," Brian says again. "This is... we couldn't--"

 

Pete waves his protests away. "You can," he insists. "It's cool, honest."

 

"We can't," Brian says, but he's wavering. Gerard realizes that he's holding his breath. Ray and Mikey are watching Brian too, and even Frank doesn't seem to have a dumb joke to make.

 

"You can and you're gonna," says Pete, seeing Brian's moment of weakness and pressing his advantage.

 

Brian grunts and raises his plastic cup of whiskey, swirling it around thoughtfully. "We'd pay you back," he says, as if it's Pete he's trying to convince and not himself.

 

"Sure," says Pete. He sounds pretty unconcerned. Gerard can't tell whether Pete really has so much cash that the loss of twenty grand really wouldn't bother him, or if he's just being Pete, living in the moment and leaving the consequences for later.

 

 _Say yes_ , thinks Gerard, almost like a prayer, _say yes, say yes, say yes_. He doesn't want to lose all of this now, not when everything was just getting so good. He glances over and sees Frank's face, open and unguarded and hopeful, and Gerard has to make a conscious effort not to smile.

 

"Okay," says Brian, after a long, long pause. "Let's do this."

 

There's a split second of silence, and then everything happens at once. Frank whoops with delight and flings himself at Brian, who catches him with a long-suffering expression. Ray throws his hands up, evidently forgetting that he's still holding a drink, and accidentally spills it all down Mikey's t-shirt (women's cut, with Robert Smith's face printed on it). Mikey squawks and jumps backwards, right into Pete, and between them they manage to take out a whole rack of CDs before they both end up sprawled on the floor.

 

Gerard helps Pete out from under the rack, but not until he's whipped out his cell phone and taken a photo of Mikey and Pete tangled together under a small mountain of jazz CDs. Pete looks a little dazed, and there's a sly smile on Mikey's face. Ray and Brian are both grinning, both talking nineteen to the dozen at each other about all the things they want to do to the place. For a moment, Gerard feels almost left out, but then Frank catches his eye. And Gerard thinks that maybe - just maybe - things are going to be okay after all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

six months later

 

 

Gerard is late for work. Gerard isn't often late for work these days, but right now he has other things on his mind. Namely, the naked, heavily tattooed guitarist currently riding him like there's no tomorrow.

 

"Fuck," Frank chokes out, grinding his hips down against Gerard's, and Gerard moans in agreement. The creaking protests of the bedsprings fall on deaf ears as Gerard rakes his fingers down Frank's back. Frank likes it when he leaves marks.

 

Gerard drives his hips up and into Frank, and Frank's ragged breath hitches on something that's almost a sob. "Oh, god," he gasps, "That's so good, you're so good. _Shit_."

 

Gerard gets his hands on Frank's hips and holds on, his fingers digging into the softness there. He can feel his whole body tightening as he gets close, and a part of him is almost sorry that they don't have time to do this more slowly. But Frank knows exactly how to get him off good and fast now, and he's pulling out every dirty trick he knows. He puts his hands on top of Gerard's, letting their fingers twine together, and leans back.

 

It's... sort of breathtaking. The brittle winter sunlight spilling through the window behind him haloes him in brightness and Gerard can see the sheen of sweat on his chest, the muscles moving and shifting under all the tattoos, the blissed-out, slack-jawed look on his face.

 

"'Kin gorgeous," Gerard mumbles, because his brain-to-mouth filter is  not at its best right now. Frank grins down at him, and stops. Gerard is so close he could almost cry.

 

"Please," he pants, because he's not too proud to beg. "Fucker, oh my god, please--"

 

Still grinning, still breathing hard, Frank lowers himself slowly back down onto Gerard, so slowly, and Gerard's back arches against the mattress.

 

"You think I'm gorgeous," Frank gasps, rising up and dropping down again, inch by slow, painful inch. It isn't a question, which is probably a good thing, as Gerard isn't sure he'd be able to answer.

 

"Maybe," he manages. "Jesus Christ, Frank, please..."

 

"Say it again," says Frank, his eyes fluttering closed. Gerard suspects it's less that Frank actually wants to be told that he's gorgeous and more that he's just a total jerk, but Gerard doesn't care.

 

"Gorgeous," he babbles. "You're a fuckin' princess, shit, come on."

 

That seems to do it for Frank, who drives his hips back down and throws his head back, going faster and faster. He moans, a deep, full-throated noise, fucking himself on Gerard's cock.

 

It's probably the hottest thing Gerard has ever seen.

 

"Holy shit," Gerard bites out, his own hips stuttering forwards. "Holy shit, holy _shit_ , Frank, I'm gonna come--"

Frank doesn't ease up, just grinds down and murmurs "Yeah, god, yeah," and it's over, Gerard is finished. Frank rides him through it, waiting for the aftershocks wracking Gerard's body to subside before he climbs off, wincing slightly as Gerard's cock slips out of him. Gerard makes a face as he pulls the condom off and ties a knot in it before throwing it in the vague direction of the trash.

 

Frank wriggles in and kisses him, a slow, lazy, open-mouthed kiss. "We should do that more often," he mumbles. "Feels fucking awesome."

 

"Yeah?" Gerard runs one hand through Frank's hair. It's getting long. Frank has been growing it ever since he realized that Gerard maybe has a thing for pulling on it.

 

"Yeah." Frank grins against Gerard's mouth. "Plus I like seeing your dumb face when you come."

 

"Charming," Gerard mutters, then pulls away. "C'mon." He beckons. He knows that his face is stuck halfway between a smug smirk and a goofy, fucked-out grin right now, but he hardly thinks Frank is going to turn down a blowjob. "Get up here. My turn."

 

Frank looks like all his Christmases have come at once. He gets up onto his knees and slings one leg over Gerard's shoulders.

 

Gerard kind of hates himself for the way his mouth is watering.

 

Frank shuffles forward, bringing his cock up to Gerard's mouth, then looks down at him. "You ready?" he says.

 

"Yeah," Gerard says breathlessly. "Yeah, come on, I wanna..."

 

"Slut," Frank says affectionately.

 

"Asshole," Gerard retorts, still grinning. And then Frank is leaning forward to grip the headboard and his cock is in Gerard's mouth, and Gerard's brain just stops. He secretly kind of loves this, just lying back while Frank fucks his mouth. Above him, Frank is flushed and sweaty, panting, running his filthy fucking mouth about how good Gerard feels, and holy shit the headboard is actually banging against the wall. That's so fucking cool. Gerard would laugh if his mouth wasn't otherwise occupied. Frank is a noisy fuck anyway, so Gerard makes sure to give him plenty of shit for that, but he's also really, really into getting head. Gerard will take the secret with him to his grave, but actually, nothing gets him going faster than seeing how Frank get all hot and bothered like this. It's a major turn on.

Frank is close now, Gerard can tell by the way his rhythm is faltering. He moans a little around Frank's cock, knowing how the vibration drives him crazy, and Frank fucking keens.

 

"Nearly there, god, fuck," he pants, and Gerard sucks harder, tasting sweat and salty precome. Frank's cock is hot and heavy, sliding wetly against Gerard's lips and it's so good, it's so fucking good. With only a few more strokes, Frank's hips buck forwards one last time and he comes with a broken shout. Gerard manages to swallow most of the mess, barely tasting it as it goes down. He doesn't like it that much in itself, but it's still somehow weirdly satisfying.

 

Frank slides out and rolls away, boneless and practically glowing. "Shit," he says eloquently. "That was. Holy shit."

 

"Right? Fucking - shit." Gerard watches Frank's chest rising and falling as he breathes. He remembers thinking that the time in the listening booth was about as good as it was ever going to get, but, god, he was so wrong.

Gerard shivers. Now the sweat is cooling, he remembers that it's February and cold as balls outside. And inside. The heating is fucked again.

 

"I guess we should put some clothes on and go to work," he says, half-heartedly.

 

Frank rolls over onto his stomach and buries his face in Gerard's armpit. "Don't wanna," he mumbles, then he sits up. "Actually, you stink. Maybe I do wanna." He gets down off the bed and starts rummaging in the layer of debris that covers most of Gerard's floor for some clothes.

 

For a few moments, Gerard is happy just to enjoy the view, then an icy draught slips in through the window and rattles up the length of his bare body, and he decides that yes, it's definitely time for clothes. Clothes, and then coffee.

 

 

*

 

 

Half an hour later, once they're both dressed and caffeinated, Gerard holds the door of the Needle open for Frank and follows him in.

 

"Shut the door, god," Mikey calls grumpily from the counter. He's wearing an enormous parka and scowling, his hands stuffed under his arms. "You're letting the cold in."

 

Grinning like a jack-o-lantern, Frank makes his way up to the counter, shedding his gloves and jacket in his wake. "Hey, Mikey. Aren't you gonna ask why we're late?"

 

"Ugh, like I need to," Mikey says, looking at the two of them with deep disgust before returning his attention to his Sidekick. "You both reek of sex. Gross."

 

"Yup," Frank says cheerfully. "Is Brian here?"

 

"In the back. He's talking to Pete."

 

"Speaking of," Frank says, snatching Mikey's cell phone out of his hand and leaning in, grinning wider than ever, "I heard you and loverboy hooked up last weekend."

 

"You know he's technically your boss now," says Mikey blandly, but Gerard is sure he detects the faintest hint of a smile on his brother's face.

 

"What?" Frank gasps, clutching his hands melodramatically to his chest. "I'm shocked. Shocked! I didn't even know he liked you. Like, seriously, no idea. Did you, Gerard?"

 

"I did wonder," Gerard says, mock-seriously. Mikey is going to fucking kill him, but it'll be worth it. "The signs were all there."

 

"The flowers he sent," says Frank.

 

"The showing up outside with a boom box," adds Gerard.

 

"The giant Marry Me, Mikey Way sign," Ray puts in, appearing from the back room as Mikey swipes the Sidekick back from Frank. "Hi, Frank. Gerard."

 

"Morning," says Gerard, around a yawn.

 

Ray looks pointedly at his watch. "Only just," he says, which Gerard thinks is uncalled-for. It's only ten thirty.

 

"Hey, Ray, are we still on for tonight?" Frank says, shuffling over to warm his hands on the space heater behind the counter.

 

"Yup," says Ray. "You did remind the others, didn't you?"

Frank looks affronted. "Um, yes? We're recording our fucking demo today, we've been waiting two years for this. Like they'd forget." He thinks for a moment. "Actually, Tim might forget. I'll text him."

 

"Drummers," mutters Ray, and shakes his head while Frank types out a message.

 

"Wait until you hear the new shit, man," Frank says, jamming his cell phone back in his pocket. "It's gonna blow your fucking mind."

 

"Yeah, yeah," says Ray. "I'll believe that when I see it."

 

"Oh, uh uh. No way. You love us. You're our number one fan." Frank points accusingly at Ray, his biggest, most shit-eating grin firmly in place.

 

"I said you weren't terrible," Ray protests. "Literally, not terrible. Those were my exact words."

 

"Yeah, so I figured that coming from you it was basically the same thing. C'mon, I bet you cry into a Pencey Prep t-shirt every night before you go to sleep. Don't try to deny it, Toro."

 

Ray rolls his eyes.

 

"How's the studio doing?" Mikey asks, tearing himself away from his cell phone to glance up at Ray.

 

"Good," says Ray happily. "Did Pete tell you? He booked a slot for his guys to come in and record a couple of demo tracks next week."

 

Frank snorts. "Yeah, like there's anyone left in the whole of fucking Jersey that he hasn't told." He shakes his head. "I still can't believe he got Andy fucking Hurley to drum for him."

 

Gerard pats him on the shoulder in a commiserating way.

 

"And then there's this baby band Pete wants to sign," Ray carries on. "He was talking about getting them in sometime. He thinks they're going places."

 

"Indie twinks," Mikey mutters.

 

"Jealous?" says Pete's voice behind them, and Mikey looks over his shoulder to see Pete and Brian emerging from the back office. It's amazing, Gerard thinks, the way Brian looks at least ten years younger now that he's actually sleeping again.

 

"You wish," Mikey drawls in his very flattest monotone. Pete swoops in and plants a kiss on his cheek. "Harassment," says Mikey, but he doesn't squirm away and he's almost smiling. Gerard can tell. "Brian, you saw that. Fire him."

 

"Actually," Brian says, "He could fire _you_."

 

"Mm," says Mikey. "Good thing I'm sleeping with the top brass, huh?"

 

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," Brian says. "Alright. Sit down, all of you. We've got another store gig and two signings this month and we've got shit to do."

 

As Gerard sits and listens to the half-assed bickering about who's going to be doing what, the strangest feeling starts to creep over him. At first, he isn't sure what to make of it. Perhaps it's heartburn. Or maybe his lungs have decided that he smokes too much and are finally staging an intervention. But no, he thinks, as he watches Frank threatening to shave Ray's hair off while he sleeps and Brian's subsequent efforts to separate them. No, that's not it either. It takes him several minutes to work out what it is, by which time the meeting is mostly over and he's been handed a long list of things he needs to do. He's halfway ready to complain, but then he gets it, and suddenly he doesn't care at all anymore.

 

It feels like home.


End file.
